I’m already at the halfway point on my walk. It is some time between daybreak and sunrise. I’m watching the full moon sinking through the tangle of oak branches along the trail.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Streaky clouds begin to take shape as the sky lightens. I sit with my thoughts. I meditate. It is a gentle start to the day – until I start sneezing. Some meadow flower or tree pollen, dust, or spore, more than likely. I’m grateful to have shoved a travel pack of tissues in my pocket. I feel very human, and just a little grossed out by the time I’m over that. I sit contentedly watching the clouds evolve as the light changes. The sunrise is bland and not particularly interesting this morning, and I’m grateful for the new day, anyway.
Breathe, exhale, relax. Meditate. Write. Think. Repeat. It is a particularly pleasant morning.
Pleasant or not, the amount of pain I’m in this morning is ridiculous. It is very specifically osteoarthritis pain, and very specifically located at my spinal fusion and below it. This is new. Over the years more and more of the joints above my fusion (T12-L2) have become arthritic. The first year or two of pain in a given new area is the worst. After awhile it begins to blur with all the rest. I keep catching myself trying to flex or somehow move this area of my spine that does not move. It is futile and uncomfortable. I glare at the clouds thickening overhead. Rain? The pain says yes, or at least a strong maybe.
I sigh to myself and do my best to let it go. I accepted the pain a long time ago as a consequence of my actions. No regrets, I paid a high price for my survival and escape from domestic violence, and it has been worth that price and more.
I get to my feet, and rub my aching knee as I do. What the hell did I even do to that knee? I no longer recall. I sigh and stretch and look down the trail. Somewhere down the trail, around that bend, beyond this new beginning, is a whole new day. I wonder where this path will lead?
Odd morning. Quiet. It’s fine. There’s a beautiful fat luminous full moon to greet me when I leave the house. It is slowly setting. By the time I reach the trail, it appears tangled in the tall oaks.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I try to get a picture of the moon as it sets. The composition is ruined by the placement of a streetlight relative to my angle of view.
There really is a full moon there.
I sigh to myself and just enjoy the sight of the full moon setting, before I set off down the trail.
I try again, zooming in closer.
The moon quickly disappears in the clouds as it sets. I start walking down the trail. Nice morning for it, clear skies overhead, mild, streaks of clouds here and there and a dense bank of clouds low on the western horizon.
I yawn as I walk, still shaking off the sleepiness of the night. I wonder if my beloved Traveling Partner managed to sleep through my departure this morning? I hope so.
“Nothing to see here”, I think to myself as I walk. I reach my halfway point and stop to write and meditate. Uneventful isn’t a bad thing, at all. I smile to myself. Breathe, exhale, relax; I make time for meditation. Finishing that, I take up my device and write a few words about nothing much on a pleasant, easy morning. I could skip it, but I don’t. It is a discipline, a practice, and also a means of reinforcing the frequency and utterly commonplace nature of lovely mornings such as this. It is far too easy to become mired in misery simply by not making a point to really be present for, and savor, beautiful quiet utterly ordinary moments.
…So here I am, doing the verbs…
…So many verbs.
The sunrise already comes later. I sit with that thought awhile. It’s not an uncomfortable thought. Change is. There is seasonality to life. It is a relatively comfortable morning, generally, aside from chronic pain that is, so far, mild enough to just ignore. I take notice of that, too, and make room in my awareness for it. It’s nice to be in less pain.
I sigh contentedly as I get to my feet and look down the trail. It’s a good time to begin again.
I wrote this the morning of my second day camping, this past weekend. There was no connectivity at all, so uploads had to wait.
By “the end” of the day, yesterday, (which was not quite 18:30 as it turned out, in spite of being a Friday night) I was in so much pain I no longer much cared whether I had trekked “enough” of my gear to my campsite. It was only 137 steps each way, from the car to the site, but I had walked it so many times I couldn’t continue. My knee ached. My plantar fasciitis was seriously aggravated. I managed to resurrect an old shoulder injury setting up the tent. The opposite shoulder and neck were screaming at me to take something for that pain. My headache was bad. My back ached too. I’m not cataloging my pain for sympathy, I’m just saying this fragile vessel had had enough and was making it painfully obvious (lol).
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Getting off my feet helped. Getting some sleep helped – and the luxury of 12 hours of deep sleep interrupted only once (had to pee) was thoroughly appreciated when I woke, slowly, to the sound of birdsong and breezes, and sunshine. The morning was cool and mild. I made myself a dreadful cup of (thoroughly insipid) coffee (too much water, didn’t grind enough beans). I didn’t really care, it was good enough to wake up over.
Sometimes it’s about something other than “quality”.
My feet hurt less this morning, but I need my cane to walk at all. My arthritis screams at me for attention, but my headache is much reduced. I guess I’ll make a point to notice and appreciate that. I brought a couple unread new books, and in the shape I’m in, it seems a good day to laze about improving my mind through the written word, or, you know, napping. 😆
I make myself a breakfast of cup noodles and half of a small sweet melon, and sit in the sunshine. Next, a book and a better cup of coffee. For now, me, a moment, and quiet time with my own thoughts over breakfast. I sigh contentedly. Right now the pain doesn’t even matter. Too much gear? Not enough gear? Doesn’t matter. What matters is taking care of myself on my own terms. What matters is this moment of sweet quiet solitude and this opportunity to begin again (in spite of the pain I’m in).
I wrote this Saturday morning, after getting some sleep and looking back on the first day of my recent camping trip.
The work day ended on Friday in a purposeful push to finish everything and remember each commitment, each loose end. I managed it, and it felt like an achievement unlocked. My attention immediately turned to finishing loading the car and saying sweet loving goodbyes…
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
… I always forget something. This time it turned out to be batteries. Well, more accurately, when I checked my gear I failed to test my headlamp or my little camp lantern. Dumb. I’m getting ahead of myself – that discovery was later.
It was not a given that I’d find a suitable camping spot. Without exaggeration, every reservable camp site within a three hour drive from where I live was reserved, for all of the dates I had available! My next step was looking for camp grounds that are exclusively first come/first served. There turn out to be several in the big state forest north and west of my home. Okay, so it’s an adventure, and I set off eagerly.
… you’re not waiting for an “and then…” twist, are you? It was a lovely drive, and almost no traffic. I arrived when I expected to. I circled one loop, then the next. I could hear my Traveling Partner’s doubtful tone when he advised me that everything would be full. I stayed hopeful. I’d try the walk-in tent sites, and hope that they aren’t half a mile into the forest, all down hill.
I stopped at the pay kiosk and took a slip, and filled out everything but the site number and started walking. At long last, and feet already hurting, I see one that isn’t occupied! I start toward it. A frantic plump woman of a mommy age rushes past me and quickly clips her receipt to the numbered post and turns to me simultaneously challenging and somewhat embarrassed. “I already saw this, I went to get a slip is all. I was already here!” I shrug and walk on, limping a bit. I was already resigned to finding a more remote site in the disbursed camping area when I walked up on an empty site from behind. For real?! I’m almost relieved but also a little wary. I check the post. Nothing. I clip my receipt there after writing the site number on it.
So relieved. I sit down at the picnic table and drink some water.
Number 9
A woman approaches me looking frustrated and waves the white slip of her receipt, telling me in broken English that she had seen this site first and only walked away to get her receipt. I drank water, and pointed to the numbered post with my receipt clipped to it. I had read the camp rules; no reservations, first come first served, someone must be occupying the site to claim it, or their gear must be present, no holding a vacant site for someone else. I felt her frustration, I had felt it myself moments ago. I definitely prefer being able to reserve a spot.
The painfully slow process of getting my gear to the site on one foot with plantar fasciitis and the knee on the other leg being quite obnoxiously unpredictable, began with real determination. It was slow going, and before I’d made two trips I was already tired and really feeling the limitations pain places on my abilities. This is one of the exceedingly rare circumstances when I truly regret my lost youth. I definitely could have done more, better. We don’t know what we don’t know. That 27 year old powerhouse physique would come in handy right now. Hell, roll the clock back to 55, this wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Today? I find myself wondering if this may be my last solo camping trip altogether…
… Beginnings imply endings, and we are mortal creatures…
Getting my basic gear to the site took three trips. Then two more because I forgot stuff I’d definitely want tonight or first thing in the morning. Another back and forth for coffee beans, and my portable grinder. It was after all that, that I discovered neither my headlamp nor my camp light would light up. In one case, the batteries were exhausted. The other had no batteries at all. I made the trek to the parking lot again, and a trip a mile down the road to Lee’s Camp Store. I’m glad I did. My beloved sent me his love and told me he misses me, and it finally reached me. (No WiFi or connectivity in the forest.) A nice way to end the day.
Lee’s Camp Store – worth a stop anyway, and peculiarly magical.
Oh, it wasn’t actually late, I was just fucking exhausted. 😆 I knew I’d get a fresh start in the morning. For the rest of that Friday evening, I focused on getting off my feet and getting some rest. Beginnings could wait.
Local news outlets reported that more than 8000 lightning strikes occurred yesterday in this region (Oregon/Washington) – in an area where proper thunderstorms used to be rather rare. Wild. (I think we broke our planet, y’all…) This morning the sky still looks stormy. Gray cottony clouds cover the sky, threatening rain.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
… I definitely need a little time away…
More stormy weather.
… and I’m forsure heading into the forested mountains of the Tillamook State Forest for the weekend. My car is already mostly packed. I think over the things I decided to pack, and the things I decided to leave behind. I nearly always bring way more than I need, and this time I’m trying to be less wasteful with my energy, and my resources.
I run through my mental list of things I’ve yet to pack. I’m nothing if not serious about making lists (and checking them twice 😆). I’ve got time and I’m not rushing. It is early morning and I’ve still got a work day ahead of me. I don’t plan to leave before about 13:00… but I do want to do a load of laundry…
I chuckle to myself as I sit trailside with my thoughts; I could have skipped my walk today. 😆 Why not? There will be more walking later, and there’s manual labor involved in setting up camp. It didn’t even occur to me to skip my walk this morning – how to tell when a practice has become a habit. 😁 I breathe, exhale, and relax. No colorful sunrise this morning, still a good time for meditation.
… I still need to pick out a book (or two) for this adventure, pack up my paint box, make sure to put my CPAP machine in the car, load the last few things into the car and double-check for missed essentials. I sigh to myself and reassure my busy eager mind that there’s plenty of time.
… but I’m counting the hours, and the clock is ticking…
I watch the cloudy sky doing cloudy sky things, and double-check the weather forecast. It’s fine. (Yesterday’s thunderstorm was not in the forecast, my brain “helpfully” reminds me.) I’m going anyway. My tent is waterproof (for many values of “waterproof”), and it has never failed to keep me dry.
I sit by this trail, comfortable and unbothered, grateful to be so easily able to just take a few days when I need them. Grateful for the partnership that is okay with my getaways. Grateful for the job that pays for the time off. Grateful to have adequate well-maintained gear. Grateful that I can drive an hour in anyway direction and feel “away”. I’m looking forward to a couple days of solitude.
I look at the time and get to my feet. Less than 8 hours until I’m in a forest, setting up camp somewhere utterly new for me. Exciting. It’s time to begin, again.
Evening Light 