Challis Hilltop: A Short Adventure Story
I remember how I struggled the morning I took this photo. The depression was hitting me hard that day and I spent a good portion of the morning crying as I explored the landscape; tears preventing me from being able to see the rocks I was searching for. I didn't fight it. I was depressed for good reasons, both situationally and chemically. I felt how I felt, and that was okay.
As I walked the dirt road back to the truck, I saw a rattlesnake silently moving into the grass, clearing a path for me after sunbathing on the road. I stopped to give it space and waited patiently for it to pass. My most peaceful encounter with a rattlesnake yet, I laughed to myself.
I wandered over a hill and noticed my pain level was getting beyond a tolerable threshold, so I set up my portable stool to rest and eat with my medication. I took in the view as I rested my legs and thought about how this Idaho scenery reminded me of a beloved spot in South Dakota. This place was beginning to grow on me after all.
As I continued across the valley, my eyes gazed toward the ground- the diffuse gaze of meditation, struggling to focus through the fog of cognitive dysfunction- until a striped pattern caught my attention. Then another. Banded agates eroded out of the landscape, the translucent crystals of their druzy sparkling in sunlight. I felt that familiar feeling of discovery, accomplishment, and awe at nature's beauty; the joy briefly lifting the weight in my chest.
I stood back up and looked at the tall hill beside me. I wondered what the view was like from all the way up there. So, I began to climb, zig-zagging my way up- a more manageable route for my tired body that allowed me to swing my right leg more easily. Could I reach the top? Maybe I couldn't, maybe I could, but only if my body was feeling up for it. I explored the land the same way I strive to approach my body: with openness and curiosity rather than determination and attachment. My typical 1 mile per hour pace slowed to 2 hours per mile. I took my time as I wandered upward. Slowly, carefully, lovingly.
When I reached the top, I turned in awe at the 360 degree views. I basked in the sound of nature's silence, the few signs of human civilization, and the wind whipping uninhibited through my hair. I watched as a storm came in from the west side of the valley, swing far south, then come up the east side back to me. The tingling excitement danced across my skin-- how I love the way storms can make you feel so alive.
Nature has this lovely way of reminding us that life is ever-changing, that we never know what's over the next hill, that our peaks and valleys, darkness and light, can coexist and intertwine. Nature doesn't cure depression, but I cherished this special moment and temporary reprieve. It gave me something good to hold onto amidst the weight of all the bad.
Even now, I can't help but smile as I remember that day, especially the frenzied "race" back to the truck before the rain could make the road too muddy to drive out, while I simultaneously couldn't help but stop and look at every. damn. rock I saw on the way back; the powerful wind and rain only adding to the chaos, urgency, and humor.
Sometimes my adventures are simply adventures. Other times, my walks through nature become lessons in life and precious memories that are imprinted in my bodymind. I'm so grateful for days like this in the wild. They remind me why I'm alive.
If you’d like to read my tips on how to explore the outdoors with chronic illness and disabilities, check out this post: www.disabledinthewild.com/blog/5-tips-for-exploring-the-outdoors-with-chronic-illness-and-disabilities
