Wallowing

For a second, I stand on top of the thin crust, exhausted from post-holing repeatedly through three feet of powdery snow. Sweat has soaked through my shirt and my heart is pounding. Ahead of me, I see the last glimpse of my son and husband’s backs as they snowshoe out of sight. Our plan is to climb Cabot Mountain, but we have chosen a route that is unused and so has no packed trail to follow, and we have only brought two pairs of snowshoes with us. I am the only one with gaiters so, I have volunteered to go without. I pretend that I am so tough, but I am not.

I take another step and my leg plunges deeply in again. This is not hiking. It is more like wallowing, of which I am doing a lot lately. It is taking all my energy to move forward and the fruits of my efforts seem incremental. I can barely keep going.

When people speak of depression, they often liken it to wading through molasses or feeling like the littlest effort takes Herculean energy. Well, I have a new metaphor for us. It is this. Swimming through the snow, watching as others seem to float on top, and finding that you are running out of reserves. The simplest step is way too hard.

This has been a tough few weeks; maybe it is because of the pandemic, maybe it is because it is February in Maine, maybe it is because I am finding parenting exhausting, or maybe it is because I am wicked menopausal, but life currently feels a lot like this hike.

Morosely, I trudge on. About every ten steps I decide that I need to quit, but then one step holds me on the surface of the snow and I think, “Maybe it is getting better.” Every time I am wrong. I fall through again, and again. I am traveling at a rate of a little less than a mile an hour. When I finally reach my family, I feel hollow and light-headed. They are pacing back and forth trying to keep warm while they wait for me.

“I need a snack.” I gulp, unable to quite admit that this adventure may be beyond my abilities.

“We need to keep going. We are freezing. Let’s eat and walk.” says Twain. Tears spring to my eyes. I can’t. I am done. I open up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and shove it into my mouth, hoping it will stem the flow. It does. I take a ragged breath and watch as fear and concern flash across my son Oakley’s brow.

“Are you okay?” He rarely sees me become undone.

“Yes, but I need to give up, I can’t do this.” I can see visions of our warm truck quickly replacing his concern, and he tells me readily that I am making a great choice. In minutes he has turned and is double-timing it off the mountain, shuffling down merrily on his snowshoes. Twain also is happy to turn around. It is as if they were just waiting for me to run myself out.

As we make our way down to the trail head, I notice that intermingled with my post holes are the postholes of a bear. “Twain, are these from a bear?” I call out just to make sure.

“Yeah, didn’t you notice we have been following them all along?” I hadn’t, but now I use them to my advantage, placing my feet into its deep prints. One step after another, slow and steady, and no longer falling through the crust of the snow. I use the bear’s strength to supplement my own.

Sometimes, I get struck by what a braggart I sound like, boasting about my adventures and telling tales. How privileged I sound, romping through the wilderness, galavanting around the country without a care in the world, but I do struggle. That is why I do it. I go on all these adventures not because I am strong, but because they help me find what strength I do have, and they help me gather it from the world around me.