The run

(...part 2! Continued from this post here)

I took off from Marina Park in Ventura. Waves were crashing hard against the rocks, filling me with vigor and enthusiasm. I started strong (and fast, I would later discover, when reviewing my splits). I found myself already gasping for breath as I ran my way through the neighborhood toward the 2-mile mark. Yikes, I thought. It's hot out already. I crossed the street to make use of what skinny stips of shade the passing palm trees could provide.

I had tried to start early, but not alarm-clock-early. I had woken naturally a little after 6 and enjoyed my coffee and oatmeal at a leisurely pace. It was 8 AM by the time I hit my starting line and temperatures were already pushing 70. It was clear this race was going to feel different than my winter excursions at home. 

Mile 3 was gorgeous. I ran along Surfer's Point, watching long-haired individuals yawn their way out of covered truck beds, out of the backs of old vans, rusty with age. They held open mugs of piping hot coffee in their hands, their wetsuits only zipped to the waist. Ordinarily I inhale oxygen when I'm running; this race, it seemed as though I would predominantly be breathing pot. This was not the kind of fuel I had planned on. California, could you be any more cliche? 

My thoughts quickly shifted to the feeling I was experiencing under my arms. Chafing? Already? Oy Vey! I'd only just begun. Given that sunshine and heat was a PNW rarity, I'd nearly forgotten the woes of running in a tank. I bent my arms and tried running with them up and out to the sides, like I was pretending to be a chicken. It did little to abate my discomfort. Soon, I felt the same gnawing rub, happening between my legs. I had run in these shorts millions of times without this problem. What was different this time? Did my legs usually rub together? I didn't know, but suddenly carried immense gratitude for my 17-degree training runs back home, where leggings and long sleeves were welcomed, if not essential. My mind flashed to the ugly long shorts that I'd purchased and worn one time, for the singular full marathon I'd completed, back when I was young and filled with even crazier ideas. I regreted tossing them after the race, my memory was instantaneously refreshed as to why us runners willingly wear such unattractive adornments on our lower halves. Let me tell you, it ain't for the fashion! I briefly daydreamed of a vat of Vaseline, and then forged ahead, knowing this race would be long and increasingly more painful. 

Between miles 3 and 4, I started to wonder if I'd passed my last water refill opportunity. I still had half of my bottle of Nuun, but I was trying to drink every mile, since my January body wasn't used to the heat. The route the Trader Joe's employee had chosen for me was an out and back, so once I hit 6.5 miles, I would be turning around and retracing my steps. Water would again be in my future, but it would be a little while. I knew a campground was coming up shortly. Surely, they would have water. But the signs requesting passersby "please do not try to sneak in" deterred me. I forged ahead, sipping the little water that remained slowly, my 16-ounce bottle feeling tinier and tinier the further I went.

I knew I was going slow when a mama with the jogging stroller flew past me. That used to be me, I thought. That’s why I used to be fast! I too once trained pushing 40 pounds + of resistance in front of me. I almost almost let the feelings of shame take over, but instead told myself that she wasn't as deep into her run, nor was she running as far as I was. I took the lead again when she pulled over to give her child a snack. Ha ha! Look who is fast now! I thought. She was stopped, but, whatever. And then she passed me for a second time. 

"You go, Girl!" I called out to her, as she sped by me with ease. Those toddler days were fresh in my memory, and I wasn't going to let my competitive nature keep her from receiving my cheers. I knew a woman of strength when I saw one. 

Then came the hard part - miles 4.5 to 9. My prediction was correct. Not only were there no more drinking fountains, but I seemed to have departed from civilization altogether. The trail stretched out before me, long, hot, and dusty (picture those cartoons where the horizon is blurry due to the heat, and then dial it back three notches). I decided to quit holding out and just finish the water I had. I knew I was starting to fade and that at this point, water consumed was more valuable than water saved. I started to ponder how long it might be before someone found me if I were to get dizzy and pass out, and then briefly fantasized about pawning a water refill off the next biker to come by. In truth, I was in no real danger, but I'm very treat-motivated and right then water sounded like a wonderful carrot to keep me going. At mile 5, I started refueling with the Clif Bloks I'd stashed in my running belt. Each time that my app announced another mile completed, I would dig in for little fruity chew pick-me-up. What joys to anticipate!

I was super annoyed that it was right as I was approaching the halfway mark that my route introduced the only two hills on the course. Hit a girl when she's already down! But I reminded myself of something I'd learned in my training: I could always slow down. In fact, often my app coaches told me to slow down. It was at times counterintuitive, but I had been learning what it meant to "rest" while running. 

I was nearing the crest of the hill when my phone rang. It was my husband, so I picked up. I imagine I didn't sound my strongest. He told me that my son wanted to talk to me. I thought he had something important to communicate, but I think he just needed to hear the sound of my voice. Hope all the bonus gasps really filled his little cup. 😉 

I told them I was at a hard part and couldn't really talk so we hung up, but hearing from them reminded me of the crew back home, both supporting me and keeping me accountable. I pictured the “RUN MOM RUN” sign, painted years ago on canvas, and now hanging in our garage. It had made the rounds to the sidelines of numerous races, and kept me motivated to keep going. I never knew for sure whether my people would make it to my races in those earlier years. The start times were always at the crack of dawn, and waking up early and getting three wee children out the door proved difficult. But when they did show (which was most of the time), they came with GUSTO (see pic from 2019 below). I knew I wouldn’t be seeing my kids and accordian-carrying husband on the sidelines here in California, but that didn’t make me any less accountable to them mentally. And so I kept running.

Truthfully, what I pictured was flying all the way down here for a (cancelled) race and then quitting because I was hot and tired, and then having to tell my kids when they asked that I didn't finish. I tend to default to the negative, and this was no exception. But Isla had told me I would win this thing and win it I would do. Maybe.

When I finally made it to the turnaround point, the blessed halfway mark, I felt more than halfway spent. The lack of water was really starting to get to me as I watched the sun rise higher in the sky with not a sliver of shade in sight. I pressed on, picturing the campground that I knew was coming. I no longer cared about the “please don't sneak in” sign. I was thirsty and I could tell my face was redder than a tomato. I veered off the trail when I saw a sign for the group campsite where, to my delight, I spied a water spicket. I felt zero shame as I stuck my mouth and then my whole face under it’s cold stream. I splashed the water onto my shoulders and arms, and refilled my bottle. Sweet relief! I struggled to dig out the pieces of electrolyte tablets I'd precut for my water while running, so I gave myself permission to walk briefly while I hydrated. I had finally reached a short stretch of shade as I passed under Highway 1, and if there was ever a time to walk for a minute, it would be now. I needed a second to bring down my body temperature. 

I knew it would be hard to restart again, but I didn’t anticipate the ruthless wave of intrusive thoughts that suddenly took over. Well, now you’ve failed. You wanted to RUN a half marathon and here you are walking. This no longer counts. I felt one half of me caving, desperately wanting to call it. Might as well quit now. There’s no point in running the rest of it.  

What on earth? Those sure came on abruptly. And wow, talk about going straight to the extreme! It tends to be my default specialty, the joys of living with my brain. In all reality, I had walked for 30 seconds, maybe 60 seconds max to drink water and cool down. And doing so was somehow going to negate the other 2 hours and 12 minutes of running I would do? The brain is a wild and powerful beast. It took every ounce of my willpower to shut the voices down and remind myself that IT WAS COMMON to walk through water stations. Try drinking from an open cup while running. It’s extremely ineffective. Had the organized race taken place, I would have been through numerous water stations already where I would have walked. 

I got my wits about me and resumed my running, greatly revived by the water refill and the brief stretch of shade. I knew the next drinking fountain was a mile or less away so I could drink all I needed without concern of running low again. When I reached the water, I was already ready for a refill. I’d been having trouble with the zippers on my belt and so I stopped again briefly to visualize what was going on and get my bottle and electrolytes out and refilled. This 30 second pause in movement brought the intrusive thoughts right back to the surface. Now you’ve stopped twice! Can you even call this a run anymore? Again, I was tempted to quit, swatting away thoughts that I was somehow a fake runner. Then with a deep breath, I tucked them away along with my water and dug in and kept going. 

By this time, I had passed the 9-mile mark. It’s funny how 9 can feel so close to 13…and yet so very, very far. I’d rounded the last point, and the end was literally in sight, though waaaaay down the coastline. But it was sunny, and the people-watching opportunities were again plentiful with surfers everywhere, and the smell of pot wafting thickly through the air. I settled in, tried to ignore my chaffing armpits that were growing angrier by the second, and forced a smile. I WAS GOING TO DO THIS!

I crossed my finish line into Marina Park with a final time of 2:13:23 (average pace of 10’10” per mile). My only true regret is that I didn’t throw my hands up in celebration as I ran through my (very invisible) ribbon. But I was too out of steam and embarrassed about looking ridiculous. All I could think about was that I was DONE, and that I had a delicious chocolate milk situation balanced on ice in the trunk of my rental car. 

The time for my half was certainly slower than it had ever been, but also not as slow as I thought it might be. For the first time I didn’t really care about my pace. It was more a piece of data that I found interesting, and I received with unexpected acceptance, the fact that I remained consistently slower throughout the entirety of my training for this race. I was aging; it made sense that my pace would slow. The purpose of taking on this run was to be in my body, and remind myself that at nearly-40-years of age, I was still strong and capable. And not only was my body strong, my mind was too. 

I think I accomplished my goal(s). I did my solo race. I'm proud of myself for my running AND MY WALKING. Though I still often default to black and white thinking (I failed, I should just give up), I'm learning to talk back and take control of my thoughts when they go haywire. And that's progress for sure. 

Oh, and did I mention I won a half marathon? ;)

The "Accidental" Half

Not to brag or anything, but I won my first half marathon back in January.

To be totally candid with you, those words are slightly misleading. Technically, the race was cancelled, but I did it anyway, with zero competition, which makes me officially the winner in all age groups and categories. Though it feels kind of good to say I won (thanks, Isla for helping make lemonade out of lemons and pointing out my first-place victory opportunity), I don't know that I would recommend running a solo non-race to anyone else. I set out to do something hard but running a "race" in a foreign place where you have to create your own course, with temperatures 30 degrees higher than you trained in and no water stations, and not a single cheer to be had, turned out to be a bit of a challenge.

In reality, this was my slowest half to date, but I finished! I like to say that I started training by accident. My daughter decided one day (and one day alone) that she was going to take up running and so proceeded to take over the running app on my phone, as teens are prone to do. She adjusted all the settings so that she could train for a 5K, which meant the app would default to short little jaunts every time I tried to start a run. Being that I am an older geezer with technology, I couldn't figure out how to reverse the situation, other than to silently yell "ISLA!" in my head in frustration every time I went for a run. What had my child done with my phone to mess with it so thoroughly? 

After a month of inaudibly swearing her name, I finally scrolled through the app and, on a whim, toggled the button that said I was training for a half. My hope was that it would then naturally default to runs with a little more distance. Lo and behold, it worked! And believe it or not, I quickly discovered that I loved the running schedule it spit out for me: intervals, speed runs, distance runs, recovery runs, all without me having to use a single brain cell to figure out what I was going to do each day. Never had I enjoyed having someone tell me what to do so much. But I make enough decisions in my day-to-day, and adding how far and what type of run I would be doing to my list of things to think (and overthink) about was just too much. Plus, I'd never really done intervals or speed runs and I was learning that I loved the variety. I even found myself usually opting for the "guided" runs, which meant I had the voice of a Nike Running coach jumping in at various points to remind me of my form and breathing. Old Kelsie would hate this. But New-And-Improving-Kelsie appreciated the encouragement, even from the recorded voice of a stranger. My husband was 0% surprised that this running program was striking a chord with me. "What? You loving a schedule and a plan? Shocking," he said, with no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

I began my accidental half marathon training in early October. Two weeks in, I found myself toying with the idea of running an actual half, but I didn't share the idea aloud for quite some time. It had been years since I'd done one, and I was a lot slower now, but the idea of building back up was appealing. I was pouring most of my energy into the physical and mental health of my kids, and I needed something just for me to keep me sane. I was running 5 days a week but most of the runs were shorter distances, and I was feeling good. An idea started percolating, and then determination set in.

Despite having completed 5 or 6 halves, I had never done one alone. I'd avoided solo long runs like the plague. I liked being distracted by social conversations. I'd never challenged myself to actually be present in a half. I would be turning 40 in August of 2024, and I wanted to greet the new decade with strength and tenacity, to remind myself that I could do hard things. After so many years of dismissing or silencing my body, I wanted to practice being as present as possible in it. I wanted to learn my capabilities, test out my mental strength, listen to my body when parts started twinging, focus on the ways my breath could replenish and restore, experience what it felt like when I started running out of fuel and then pay attention to how it felt when I gave it what it needed. 

The last couple years, my Christmas wish has been for a solo weekend away in January. I have built a rhythm where I begin a new year reflecting on the year prior, and then spend some time looking ahead at the year to come. As I continued doing the runs my app spit out before me, I began dreaming about combining a weekend away with a destination half marathon. In so doing, I could kill three important Kelsie birds with one stone: weekend away alone, running, plus ADVENTURE.

I spent way too many hours researching half marathons across the country. Ultimately I boiled my desired race criteria down to a short list: there needed to be sunshine, I wanted a relatively flat course, I wanted it to be held somewhere I would like to visit, and I needed to keep to a strict budget. I landed on the Seaside Half Marathon in Ventura, CA, about 30 minutes outside of Santa Barbara. It felt like such a splurge and yet I had the full support of my husband and a sense of peace about the decision, so I booked – flights, Airbnb, a rental car, the race. I WAS DOING THIS!

Fast forward through the cold and wet winter months in the PNW (why on earth would anyone train for a half in these messy weather months?). I had completed my “14 week” training plan over the span of 16 weeks. Looking back, it is crystal clear to me that this "accidental" training was far from coincidental. I had no way of knowing what hardships I would face in December and early January, with a sudden and traumatic medical crisis with my dad. Meanwhile, my three kids were each facing their own challenges and they all seemed to be coming to a head at once. I found myself with time to do little else other than care for my people and then go on a run. Care for my people and go on a run. Over and over on repeat. The number of times I was in a hospital or taking someone to an appointment had reached an all-time high. 

As I stared down the week of my race, it felt like both the absolute worst time to peace out on my life for 5 days, and the absolute best time. I desperately needed a break to process everything I was wading through. Training for a known goal had felt like such a buoy for my sanity during a period of time where there seemed to be endless unknowns. But Jesus knew. And the path had been clearly orchestrated before me.

The day before my flight out, I told my son to think of me that weekend during his basketball game. At that point I should just be finishing up my half marathon. He asked me what time my race started and so I pulled up the website to refresh my memory. I looked at the page three times. Each time the words remained the same: “Seaside Half Marathon Postponed.” 

I couldn’t believe it. Surely I was looking at last year’s race? I checked again. Nope, this page was for 2024. I quickly scanned my inbox, looking for some sort of alert and came away empty. I found a contact phone number and email address and reached out to both. No response. What the heck was going on!? I Googled the race. I couldn’t find any information anywhere. I was supposed to leave in just over 24 hours and I’d paid for everything. An hour later, I received an email reply with a screenshot of another email, one from 3 weeks ago that had never arrived in my inbox. Sure enough, due to situations outside of the race organization’s control, the race had to be postponed. 

Well, this was certainly an unexpected wrench in my plans! Now this trip that I had so been looking forward to felt a tiny bit less justified. I would be spending our family vacation budget on a trip whose set purpose had been eliminated. Feelings of guilt began creeping up around me. Could I mentally justify my trip? Was my need for time away still valuable enough, even without the race? The answer is a resounding YES. I hate that even for a second I would think otherwise. I was disappointed that after all this training, I wouldn’t have a new running shirt to show for it, but I could regroup.

Without a formal race, I was going to have to get a little creative. The Ventura course was supposed to begin in a coastal campground, cut onto the Pacific Coast Highway, and then continue onto a biking trail for a ways before the turn around point. I didn't feel great about jaunting about on the side of the highway without the protection of orange safety cones that a race typically provides, so I turned to Google maps for a new strategy. I mapped out a route in Santa Barbara, and then packed my bags. 

Upon arriving in Ventura, I did what I always do when I visit a new place: I hit up Trader Joe's for some groceries. I mentioned my cancelled race to my cashier, and she was quick to offer me a new route suggestion in Ventura proper. She sounded like she knew what she was talking about, so I gladly accepted the instructions she'd scribbled on the back of my receipt in Sharpie. 

One glorious thing about running a non-race is that you can do it whenever you want to. In regular life, I like to have everything planned out, but I've learned that when I am doing something hard (like, for instance, packing up my campsite, or running a half marathon), "surprising" myself and doing it earlier than expected gives me a strange sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. Is it the feeling of being ahead of schedule that I love? Mostly, I think it is just that I didn't waste excess energy in a state of dread, anticipating the hard thing. It's just better when I don't “know” it's coming. But only when I do it to myself. Make sense of that tomfoolery!

I walked a short portion of the Ventura waterfront path the morning after I arrived, taking careful note of the parks with drinking fountains, and testing to make sure they had running water. Oh, to live in California where the drinking fountains can stay on in winter - such luxury! Back home, there was no water to be had in public fountains since October. I brought my own water belt, but it only carried 16 ounces and temperatures were supposed to hit mid-70s, nearly double what I'd trained in. I knew I would need refills. 

Now that I’d scoped out the area, what was stopping me from bumping my race up a day? I knew it would feel good to enjoy 2 full days with it behind me, rather than one. So I decided to go for it the following day.

 

(To be continued...)

A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E: the trek

I took a little circumstantial break from my A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E backpacking mini series because, well, kids. I’ve spent the majority of this new year so far on an ADVENTURE all it’s own, caring for my own three plus a couple of bonus boys through the Strong Families program where we volunteer. The days have been incredibly full and the new-to-us minivan hasn’t had a seatbelt to spare. It’s been the best kind of crazy. I will (likely) go back to “only” three kids this week, and with that, I hope to wrap up this series before my trip becomes a distant memory. If you are just joining in, I’ve been chronicling my first ever backpacking experience and you can find my first two posts here and here. 

*         *         *         *         *         *         *

D-day had finally arrived. I was abuzz with nerves and plenty of caffeine, a hiker’s must before any adventure, but especially an overnight one I’d decided. I might have to pee a lot now, but my other system would thank me later for the pre-hike cleanout perks of drinking coffee, if you know what I mean. If I was lucky, I could escape the horrific-sounding experience of having to cart any used TP covered in you-know-what back down the mountain with me (please refer to my first post if you are unclear what I am referring to).

As I pulled into my parking space where we were meeting, I decided on a whim to do a crash-course last viewing of the videos our leaders had sent on shelter creation. This felt a bit like overkill, since their mention of the YouTube tutorials seemed like a bonus optional activity, not an essential one. The video demonstrated no less than four different ways to arrange your magic tarp, depending on whether your highest priority was shelter from wind or rain, or whether you wanted one end more open to enjoy a view. I’m more of a hands-on learner and the process seemed far too complicated for my brain to memorize so, like every wise outdoorswoman who has ever gone before me, I closed the window on my phone and decided I would “just wing it when I got there.” Surely the leaders would be setting up our church-provided shelters on site, right? We probably just needed the video knowledge “in case we felt like helping.”

After one final gear check as a team, we were ready to head up to Snoqualmie Pass where we would begin our ascent to Kendall Peak Lakes from a private backyard. The hike itself was slow-going but mostly uneventful. It took us much longer than expected to make the trek up, but we all stuck together and cheered each other on during the segments where chit chat was encouraged. Our guides paused at various points along the hike to point out the curiosities of nature, encouraging us to also spend time in silence, pondering specific questions they posed along the way. 

We were required to leave all watches and technology at the trailhead (the photo above came from a leader's watch and was provided to us AFTER the trip). So, we were at the mercy of our senses and the sun in the sky to determine how long we’d been at our trek. At what I would guess was about 3 hours in, we were only a little over half way. It became apparent to our guides that we needed to abandon our plan to wait until we reached our destination to eat our last meal before we began fasting. We pulled to the side of the path and picnicked on the trailside, filling our bellies with a lovely spread of charcuterie and crackers. Some of us honed in on the cheese, stuffing ourselves with unwholesomely large servings in hopes of keeping us good and stopped up for our night without toilets in the woods. (You’re welcome for that complimentary hiking hack).

For the majority of our climb, we trekked along a wide forest service road. Once we got high enough, we took a sharp left onto a road less traveled. I would venture to say very much less traveled. We pressed suddenly into a thick clump of trees, and I giggled to myself as I plowed through the brush, thwapping my hiking mates behind me with the branches I pushed out of the way and then released. There was really no way to maneuver the situation gracefully. Was this actually a trail? What had I been expecting? Maybe more carved wooden arrow signs that read “Kendall Peak Lakes this way?” Even without clear markings, I felt my sense of adventure sparking as I experienced the excitement of this I-think-we’re-on-the-trail-but-who-can-say-for-sure style of hiking.  

After hopping over some felled trees (surprisingly harder than you’d think when wearing a heavy backpack), and climbing a steep final hill, we reached our destination for the night, the second of the Kendall Peak Lakes. We dropped our packs and followed our fearless leaders as they led us around the area, pointing out good “campsite” options (read: patches of flat-ish, bare-ish ground, approximately the size of a human body). Again, I’m not sure what I was expecting. Perhaps a Ranger doling out papers with our last names and the date range of our planned stay to clip on our shelters? Or maybe wooden posts toting the campsite numbers? A list of campground rules and published quiet hours? But there was none of this. Just a beautiful sparkling lake, and total, unadulterated freedom. Glory!

Most everyone snagged their preferred spot right away. I practiced unnatural-for-me flexibility as I waited to see which patch of ground was still available for me to pitch a tent. Er, I mean tarp. I secretly hoped for a waterfront spot, so I took a little walk along the shoreline with one of the leaders to see if we’d missed any good options. We were about 40 yards from the rest of the group when I spotted a pile of something brown and far too large to have exited out of the backside of a dog. My eyes bulged as I pointed to it, expecting my guide to scream in horror and announce we would consequently need to pack up and relocate to a safer area. Instead, she kicked at the poop with her hiking boot as if it were a rock and then announced matter-of-factly, “It’s old.” 

She said it as if this was some form of great reassurance. I looked at her blankly and then realized I was supposed to be set at ease. “Oh okay,” I say, trying to play along and hoping the cool-as-a-cucumber vibe I was channeling was working. I realized at that moment that I personally don’t really care about the age of bear scat that I encounter in the wilderness. I don’t practice prejudice. YOU GUYS! IT WAS BEAR SCAT! It’s one thing to know there are bears in the forest. It’s another thing to KNOW there are bears in the forest. 

Now, I’ve been watching the History Channel survival show, Alone, ever since I became outdoorsy this past summer. The show chronicles contestants who are dropped off with only 10 items in the rural woods of British Columbia. Their goal is to see how long they can make it in the wilderness living off the land. The individuals encounter many terrifying forms of wildlife; one hundred percent of them come across bears. And before they run into the bear, they first observe the excrement. And people observing poop love making all sorts of comments about temperature, steaminess, moisture level etc. etc. So, as one does after watching a show like this, I have learned to be *slightly* more accommodating of the older, drier bear scats. But I couldn’t say that was the case when I was on my backpacking trip. Who knew I was to become a bear scat connoisseur? I certainly did not. Growth mindset, I tell ya what. 

Anyhow, one of the women in our group had openly expressed her terror surrounding bear encounters prior to the trip, so my leader and I agreed to keep our little scat discovery to ourselves. I managed to act about as casually as if I had just discovered that Santa Claus isn’t actually real as we marched our way back toward the others who had claimed their spots and were beginning to unpack their bags. I pasted a We’re-Fine-Everything’s-Fine smile on my face for approximately 28 seconds before I whispered through my teeth to the friend who had invited me that I’d just found bear poop. We didn’t have any time to discuss matters further because a request was made for a quick shelter-building demonstration with the tarps that had been provided to us.

One of our leaders obliged with a little coaxing (hallelujah!) but something told me a visual demo was not in the plan and that we were intended to figure out how to construct a shelter on our own. Whatever the case, I was grateful for it, and tried to absorb everything she was saying before we dispersed to our individual sites to begin our time of silence and try it for ourselves.

Some members of our group felt most comfortable setting up camp in close proximity to our guides. Others wanted a lakefront view. I was (slightly) more okay with being further away which somehow translated to my snagging the spot that was THE FURTHEST away from the rest of the group. I was either going to be the first one eaten by a bear or the last, depending on which direction he came from. But perk! Since I had no one on one side of my camp, I could easily drop my drawers toward that side when I needed to pee, mooning the empty hillside without a care in the world. There’s always a plus side! 

It probably goes without saying that I didn’t practice shelter building. I didn’t realize that I needed to. I dumped out my fancy tarp and all the silky cords that accompanied it and set to work. Immediately I realized a problem: the spikes on my hiking poles were too large to fit in the grommet holes of my tarp. I had no tent poles, the hiking poles were it. The demonstration I’d just witnessed wasn’t going to work for me. Stubborn to the core and refusing to seek help, I dug in my heels and determined I would figure this out. I dusted off the memory of the YouTube videos I had breezed through in my car before we departed. Little did I realize I should have memorized them step-by-step, that the difference between a wet and a dry sleeping bag in the AM could depend on this moment. 

One video had mentioned something about using a stick to secure the rope in the grommets. If the spike on the pole was incompatible with my tarp, maybe a stick could work? I channeled my engineer father and snapped some thick twigs into workable lengths as I MacGyvered a solution to my misfit poles. If I threaded a loop of my rope through the grommet and then inserted a stick into the loop, it would function as a stopper to keep the rope in place. Then I could loop the rope around my misfit pole a few times and use it to prop up my shelter. As long as I could get enough tension on the ropes pulling in each direction and made no sudden movements, it could work. My next trick was to figure out how to create tension on both sides of my shelter simultaneously so that I could tighten my ropes and secure the shelter. Try as I might, every time I would get one side of my shelter up, the other side would fall as I attempted to stake it in place. It seemed impossible without an extra set of hands. After what felt like the twelfth try, finally, success! Without further adieu, I'd like to introduce you to my pride and joy: my shelter!

For real though, I'm ridiculously proud of this thing. It may not seem like much but I dare you to go out in the woods and built your own shelter and then tell me you don't feel like the most empowered being that has ever walked the forest. It was only after I secured my fortress in place that I realized I’d accidentally built my shelter over a small shrubbery. Oops! I wasn’t about to retry the whole ordeal so I surrendered to sleeping that night alongside my little “indoor” bush (please see the bulging lump on the right). Good thing I'm not a perfectionist! And even better that I’m a plant lady! It’s almost fitting, actually. 

Oh, and guess what I found a mere minutes after pitching my shelter? Yep, you guess it! More bear scat, FIFTEEN FEET from my spot. 

A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E: the packing (who knew!?)

 

(This post is the 2nd in a series. If you haven't read the first one, it can be found here).

The morning of our adventure, I was abuzz with nerves and excitement. In the spare moments I had over breakfast, I decided to Google important tidbits like “how to pee outside for women.” Nothing like waiting until the 11th hour to educate oneself on the essentials! Taking care of one's business had always proven rather challenging for me, typically resulting in wet socks and shoes, a less than ideal situation for my overnight adventure. Someone had told me about a technique that involved leaning (or was it sitting?) up against a tree. I was having a hard time visualizing this approach and my last minute search did not result in a whole lot of appropriate videos for viewing. Oh well. Sometimes you just have to live it to learn it I guess! 

Packing for the trip had been a little mini adventure all on its own. The detailed packing list provided to us both whispered my love language and instilled a small amount of confusion and anxiety. I always thought a sleeping bag was just a sleeping bag. I learned that this was not the case when I sent a picture (above) of my sleeping bag to the friend who had invited me on the trip, just to make sure it would “work ok.” She spared me all embarrassment when she responded with a simple “I’ve got one for you” instead of laughing in my face and telling me the truth of the matter which was that mine was 7 times too large and I would look like a fool. How I’ve lived this long is truly a mystery. 

I knew it was important to pack light when backpacking but one of my most pressing questions leading up to the trip was one I'm sure many readers share: Would I be allowed to bring a pillow? The team took my query in kind and suggested that perhaps some of my clothing could double as a pillow? I didn’t bite. You can take away my tent but, as a side sleeper, a pillow is non negotiable. My daughter generously offered to let me take a small one that she had made by hand. (Spoiler alert: it worked perfectly and my neck thanked me).

With my sleeping set up out of the way, I borrowed a backpack from my sister and set to work carefully trying to fill it with all of the recommended clothing items. 

I was instructed to pack things made of materials like “polypropylene, Polartec, Synchilla, Capilene.” Honestly, they lost me at “polypropylene.” These terms sounded more like items to add to my growing allergy list than fabric types with which to clothe my body. I grew dizzy with confusion as I read the tags on my clothing and realized I owned exactly zero articles containing the desired ingredients. It appeared that my 4-H sewing education had left out a couple of important chapters on textiles that would have prepared me for my time in the outdoors. This “cheap trip” was about to become a great deal more expensive if I approached it in traditional “Kelsie style,” which is to follow the packing list exactly and purchase everything on it in the vein of “being prepared.” I knew this idea would be unpopular with both my husband and my wallet, and so I reassured myself that I could make do following the simple summary uttered by our fearless leader: “Avoid packing cotton or denim.” Insert a huge sigh of relief here. My running wardrobe would fit the bill!

I was quick to learn that in backpacking, layers were key. And you didn’t just need one or two of them. What you needed was ALL of them. So I stuffed my pack with a spectrum of polyester and spandex (read: poor woman’s polypropylene) running gear to keep me outfitted for all the weathers ranging from blazing sun to cool mornings in the shade. I almost didn’t pack a puffy coat layer because, after all, it was August! If one was considering putting me in an environment that would call for a winter coat IN THE SUMMER, one would need to think again. I wait a good and long time for the warm months and you wouldn’t find me “wasting” them anywhere that required a layer thicker than a penny. But I threw a coat in when the leaders brought up the point that we would be IN THE MOUNTAINS. Good call. I drew the line at mittens though, which I sneakily left at home because I may look like a rule follower from the outside, but occasionally I know how to live on the edge.

I even splurged on a fancy spray from REI to repel bugs that I spritzed heavily on all of my clothes beforehand. Given my recent development of severe allergies to preservatives that are too long to pronounce, it was perhaps a bit of a gamble to use a new-to-me spray on the fabrics that would be resting against my skin (the body’s largest organ!) But, details! My reactions thusfar had involved my eyes swelling shut, not full anaphylaxis, and who even needs eyesight when they are out in the wild? 

While I was able to scrounge and borrow most everything for the trip, I did make a couple of purchases, which raised by outdoorsy game by a solid 150%. You might be shocked to know that I have never owned hiking boots. Apparently I exude a heavy outdoorsy vibe, because most people are surprised to learn this. I have often been told that I should own hiking boots, but I kind of sing a line of my husband’s tune on this one: Why buy something if what you have already works good enough? My running shoes had successfully carried me on 10 mile hikes. How much did I really need boots? But if ever there was an excuse, it was now. When I went to the used sporting goods store looking for a baseball belt for my son and spotted some gorgeous, barely-used turquoise boots marked down by a couple hundred bucks, it suddenly seemed like a really good idea to own them. And bonus! They were even my size! Well, almost. Technically they were the correct size for one of my feet. My left foot would just have to deal. When one of your feet is significantly bigger than the other (thanks, pregnancy), one can’t be picky.

My boots were nice but probably my proudest backpacking purchase was a set of tiny plastic containers from the dollar store (you're welcome in advance). I don’t know how most people pack their toiletries for the wilderness (do most people pack toiletries?) but I was thrilled by the miniature organization system I came up with for my special nonallergenic sunscreen, deodorant and lotion. Watch out world! The innovation ideas within me abound. 

Now that my toiletries were squared away, there was only one last thing I had to think about: trekking poles. And I only thought about them for a half second. They were under the “optional” section of the packing list, so obviously wouldn't be necessary. I was young! And spry! I couldn’t remember the last time I’d fallen over while out walking. The truth of the matter was that being seen with walking sticks in public felt like the ultimate label of “uncool.” And though I try not to subscribe to the idea of coolness, I'm a recovering homeschooler, and this thread runs deep. So bottomline: I wouldn't be bringing any poles on the trek. I tried to fly under the radar in hopes my secret would go unnoticed, but it was forced out of me at our last meeting, when each participant was asked directly if they had poles. My friend graciously offered to let me borrow one of her sets, and when I learned that even the cool kids on the trip (read: EVERYONE) would be bringing poles, I sheepishly agreed. And it was a really good thing too, as I would soon learn...

A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E, the prelude

Adventure was the thing I’d been missing.

I wasn’t aware of the void until I filled it, the relief flooding through me like an itch finally scratched. 

I was kind of tricked into the trip, if I’m honest. A newer friend who I admire immensely sent me a personal text of invitation: “Want to do this with me? No pressure, but I’ve already signed up and I would love it if you were there too.” 

I wouldn’t have even entertained the idea for more than a half of a second, had it not been for her. I’d always been a tiny bit curious about backpacking, but my insecurities, and the fact that I owned zero outdoor gear, kept me from thinking about ever making a trek a reality. 

I don’t have a backpack.

I don’t even own hiking boots.

I have IBS. 

I don’t really do the whole no bathroom thing.

“I have all the gear,” she told me, “and you can share my tent.”

I don’t know what was in my water that day, but after a two second conversation with my husband and $30 later, I was signed up for a 36 hour backpacking trip for moms. I guess it was the hidden away part of me that longs to live a little on the edge, finally surfacing to see the light of day. My sense of adventure was making a comeback, poking its way out of the piles motherhood stacked over it. I wanted to live a little more wild. Provided I could plan for it. A reserved thrill seeker of sorts. 

As a kid, I always loved roller coasters. I went for the drop waterslides, the rides at the fair where they harness you in a contraption and pull you up to the top of a tower only to release you into a free fall until you soar through the air like Superman. I sought out heights and jumped off cliffs into lakes. I went to Brazil twice in high school, staying at a remote and bare-bones summer camp where we encountered a tarantula in our makeshift outdoor shower. At the end of my junior year in college, I traveled alone to Peru to meet a group of perfect strangers from Iowa and spent a month with them studying abroad. I wasn’t one to shy away from the wild. Though I was cautious, the wild lit something in me. 

This backpacking trip was to be led by our pastor’s wife and her daughter. A fun girls weekend of sorts, I thought. I pictured gathering around a campfire, clinking mugs filled with wine that we’d squeezed into our packs, toasting s’mores and giggling late into the night. In reality, the trip was an entirely different adventure, not at all what I expected, and yet there is nothing about it I would change. We met “together” three or four times on Zoom before the weekend of our trek. At each meeting, I learned a new piece of information that might have caused me to not sign up, had I known it from the get-go. Perhaps this was a well thought out strategy? Lock the buyer in before they see the fine print! Or maybe it was just perfectly orchestrated happenstance. Whatever the case, it worked! The first change in my mental plan was learning that there would be no tent-sharing, which had been the initial carrot that enticed me. The purpose of the trip was to spend time in solitude and prayer, and giggling side by side in sleeping bags would (theoretically) get in the way of that. Even though I missed the memo about the solitude when I registered, I’m an introvert always looking for alone time, so this was a fairly easy adjustment.

The new tidbit of information I gleaned from the second meeting was a bit tougher for me to swallow. Not only would we be in solitude, but we would also be fasting. I had fasted from specific food items or food groups for short seasons before, but the only time I had ever completely fasted from food was for a few hours leading up to a blood draw. And these periods of fasting usually took place overnight. I only had to make it until 9 AM when the lab was sent off before I could drink my coffee and have a bite. The fasting on this hike was much more intimidating. We would be allowed to snack on the way up the mountain and we would enjoy a picnic together too. But once we arrived at camp, there would be no more eating. We were warned that any snacks left in our packs would be a magnet for animals, so sneaking anything would not be a viable option (ok fine, I’m a rule-follower and could never cheat like this anyway…) Daydreaming of cheating aside, I was suddenly acutely aware of an unrealized fear of going to bed with an empty stomach. In my life of immense privilege, this was not something I often experienced. And it felt next-level intimidating to go without food on top of a mountain. I tried not to let my superficial fears show as I smiled and pretended on-screen that this new knowledge wasn’t causing me to seriously reconsider whether I wanted to do this anymore.

We were encouraged to practice fasting before the trip, both from screens and electronics, and from food. It became painfully obvious how little I wanted to go without these vices, as evidenced by my minimal willingness to practice any more than I had to. Embarrassingly, I fasted for one headache-filled day before the trip and called it good.

The last (and perhaps greatest though they all seem rather significant) surprise was learning that we would not actually be spending the night enclosed in the illusion of safety also known as a tent. Rather, we would be in an open-air fancy REI tarp shelter THAT WE WOULD HAVE TO BUILD OURSELVES. My mind proved incapable of picturing such a setup so I avoided spending even an ounce of time on the subject, trusting that we would be instructed on how to go about this once we arrived in the wild.  

At our final meeting, when the discussion moved to digging a latrine toilet and having to TAKE HOME any used toilet paper or feminine products in a ziplock bag, I began laughing as a protective mechanism. This girl has been on many-a-hike but apparently she lives under a rock. I had never encountered a situation in my short 38 years where it would be required that I place feces-covered paper products BACK IN A BACKPACK ALONG WITH MY CLOTHES AND MY TOOTHBRUSH. Honestly the thought had plain never occurred to me. The scales were coming off my eyes in a real hurry.

One of my fellow adventurers next brought up the topic of bears and I pinched myself when I realized I was zero percent fazed. I almost welcomed an encounter with a bear or something large and from the feline family over going without food and bagging my waste like a mother in the pediatrician’s office forced to return a poopy diaper to her purse because the sign says it can’t be disposed of there. 

But I digress. ;) All this to say, the mental picture I’d built of this “mom’s weekend away” was shifting rapidly into something else entirely. That said, though I had (a large handful of) fears and reservations, something in me felt drawn toward the ruggedness I was now picturing. I kind of wanted to do something hard and get out of my comfort zone. Check and check! Is that not more or less the bare-bones definition of the word adventure? 

I just Googled it and I’m not far off. Oxford says that to adventure is to “engage in hazardous and exciting activity, especially the exploration of unknown territory.” I love that the word hazardous is in there!

Had the trip been led by anyone else, I might have reconsidered, but I adored the two ladies who were guiding us and trusted that they knew what they were doing and that the experience they facilitated was going to be worth it. 

And it was. 

(To be continued...)