Bikemum

On a cool February morning, we stand together in the Maine ocean, full of horror and anticipation of what we have set for ourselves as a Wednesday Adventure challenge; a dip in this 39-degree Fahrenheit bath. It bites at our ankles and all we can do is shriek. “We just have to do this one thing! One thing!”

“Oh, Jesus. Oh my God. It hurts!” shouts Oakley, but he is grinning; radiating life.

“Come on, no turning back now!” I cry, the sun and the cold and the bright winter day fill my lungs and burst out of my mouth triumphantly. “We are doing this!”

With that I hold my breath and plunge under the water, then porpoise up and out, lunging for the shore, tripping over my feet gasping, sputtering, and laughing. My skin feels afire and my heart pounds in my chest. Oakley is seconds behind me, shaking his head like a wet golden retriever. When he reaches the beach, he gallops up and down the sand, caterwauling with pure glee and spewing a sequence of joyful obscenities. r

Everything tingles. Everything is bright. It feels like happiness.

Two days later, my husband begins to feel a little lightheaded and develops a slight cough. The next day he feels achy. The next day he is tested for COVID and finds that he has it and due to Oakley and my proximity to him, we find that we will need to quarantine for 10 to 20 days depending on how the virus travels in our family unit. We can not leave our home. I knew this day would come, and I know we will be okay.

It is Adventure Wednesday again. My husband Twain feels better and for that I am grateful, but this week, my chest does not feel full of radiating light; it feels tight, like a toddler is sitting upon it. A little toddler. I believe the virus is sniffing around for fertile ground, but I am a healthy woman and not too worried. This will have to be a different kind of adventure.

Oakley seems fine and so we are busying ourselves with small projects that don’t require much energy. I think he is relieved by the quiet. He builds a fire in the backyard and bakes a chocolate cake in a dutch oven-it is delicious. We give our ducks a bath and watch them munch on floating lettuce and preen themselves as if they are preparing for a ball, then Oakley decorates his room and nests in it, perhaps inspired by the ducks.

Today, I breathe shallow breaths and feel like napping and watching bad television. I have no desire to jump in the ocean, but the memory of the shock and beauty we felt lingers. It will be there another day. That’s the thing about the ocean, about the mountains, about the sun. they are always there, and I know we will be back to play in them all, after I just take a little rest.

The forest is dark, but not asleep. As we slip along the trail in the shadows of a slim moon, I feel all my senses aquiver, yearning for sound and for vision, yet gulping in the darkness like a delicious feast. Tonight, we have decided to cross-country ski out of the safety and warmth of the Gorman Chairback Lodge (AMC hut) outside Greenville, Maine, to experience the true dark of night; away from man-made lights. Away from mainstream madness. Away from the cooped-up chaos that is our life.

It is cold, perhaps ten degrees, and the interplay between the heat in my core and the chill of the night has created a feeling of dancing between two worlds; a perfect balance. Frosty tendrils of air tickle my ears and feel like kisses on my cheeks. Snow is falling gently, and our skis slide effortlessly across the crystalline flakes. The dark hills loop up and down carrying us forward. Beckoning us to go just a little further, and then further still.

It is too dark to make out any detail in the woods around us. I can see the silhouettes of tall pines on either side of the trail, the white snowy forest floor, and the forms of my husband and son up ahead. They appear to become one with the trees when more than a few feet grow between us, and I struggle to make out where they stop and the wilderness begins. My husband and I giggle crazily when we swoop down unseen steep sections, thrilled by flirting with the unknown. Never knowing how steep a hill might be, just trusting that the ground will rise again, loom up in the darkness and slow our descent. Oakley is more nervous, unsettled by what might lurk outside his vision. I whisper calming words, asking him to relax, reassuring him that out here, he is safe. It is so quiet. All my pores feel open in an effort to collect the peace found in this winter forest.

Two days later, and the darkness is behind us, now the bright white expanse of frozen Moosehead Lake slams against the brilliant blue winter sky. The air is filled with the sounds of snowmobiles revving their engines and ricocheting from one side of the lake to the other like hundreds of misquotes. We are wearing snowmobile jackets, helmets, pants, and boots so that our bodies are completely protected from the elements. We can’t even hear each other’s voices so we gesture emphatically to communicate. My son Oakley and my husband share one snowmobile, and I straddle another. “Be careful, Oakley!” I shout over the din. None of us have ever ridden a sled before, and the countless stories of careless accidents fill my head. He gives me a thumbs up and a grin and takes off, careening across the lake at what appears a break-neck pace. I chase after. Our sleds jump over snow-covered compression fractures and rattle over the icy trails left by others. Sometimes we cross large unmarred snowfields, and our runners slice through the snow effortlessly, making a zipper-like sound.

Oakley stands on his snowmobile, his bright red snow pants like a flag that boasts of unbridled happiness. I stand on mine and try to keep up, slowing whenever the terrain varies ever so slightly and speeding up to catch him again and again. We travel over 65 miles until my ears are swollen with the roar of the engines and can no longer hear quiet, until my eyes can no longer focus because of a slight snowblindness, and my thumb has cramped from pressing against the throttle. When we finally climb off our machines,and pull the helmets from our heads, Oakley is glowing as if he has just swallowed a bottle full of happiness, and my heart feels full.

Oakley and I keep stretching each other, forcing each other to try new things and hold fast through difficult challenges. We are following each other as we zig and zag through adventure, behavioral issues, and this pandemic. Each time, I push him, he resists, each time he pushes me, I resist, but it is through this interplay that both of us get to experience parts of life that awaken us. Yin and Yang, Ebb and Flow. Heartache and Joy. Darkness and Light. Sliding through dark forests and hurtling across stark frozen lakes.

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.

“I hate cross-country skiing. It is stupid, you just come out here and slide around for no point.”

Oakley is ranting again. It is understandable. Not only is he a 17-year-old boy forced to adventure weekly with his mom, but he is also wearing skis that require wax and it keeps wearing off, making him slip one way and then another. Every way but forward, really. “Let’s just go up to the top of that hill and then we can call it a day. There will be some good views.”

“I don’t care about views. You do. I am going back to the truck.”

“No, you are not. We have driven more than an hour to get here and we are going to have fun.”

“No, we are not!”

We are cross-country skiing at Quarry Road in Waterville, Maine. It is beautiful. There are eight miles of groomed trails that loop through the forest and the snow is perfect; an all-natural, corduroy, roller coaster. I will be damned if Oakley ruins it. “We are going up that hill,” I say with firm resolution. He knows that to fight me when I use this tone would be futile. It would get ugly.

So, up we go. I am as determined to enjoy myself as Oakley is to squawk. I do my best to tune him out, and he follows angrily, cursing under his breath and thrashing around like an ice-skating giraffe. When we finally reach the top, we find ourselves overlooking an old, downhill ski run. It is a straight shot to the bottom, fairly overgrown with small shrubs and grasses poking up out of the snow. He instantly brightens. “Let’s go down that!” His eyes flash with dare and bravado. His bad mood swept away in his surge of excitement. It is far too steep for me on my cross-country skis, in fact, it looks far too steep for anybody.

“No, I will break my leg.”

“Yeah, but I won’t! I will meet you at the bottom! This will be fun.” It is true, he will have fun, and escaping his caterwauling sounds like a slice of heaven.

“Okay, I will meet you at the bottom in 20 minutes.” With a whoop and a grin, Oakley takes off down the hill. He really is a stimulation junkie. I, on the other hand, pick my way along the ridge on what appears to be a snowshoe trail. I am sure it will descend eventually, but I am in no rush. The woods are quiet and still and I lose myself in the serenity found there.

For a while, I follow blue blazes that mark the snowshoe trail, but then on a whim, I decide to go off the route and follow what looks like a gently sloping ski run. There are dog prints on this track, so I know someone else has traveled this way. Deeper and deeper I go, the quiet of the woods calling me, the snow muffling all sound. I am lulled into a meditative state. I continue to follow the dog tracks, occasionally wondering when they might begin to descend, but not really caring one way or another. Oakley can wait. Suddenly, I hear a loud snort. The small hairs in my ears stand at attention, straining to feel any vibration of sound. What the heck was that? That was not the sound of a dog. I look at the tracks again.

They are bigger than I first noticed and have heavy claw marks poking deep into the snow. They also seem to be surrounded by a larger imprint, of maybe, fur? Tingles ride up my spine. My brain turns on. What would a dog be doing up here without any human prints beside it? What exactly am I following?

I hear the snort again, it is quite close, and I realize, I am chasing a bear. It sounds like a warning, full of power and hot breath. I heed it.

Quickly, I turn on my skis, legs all akimbo, and trace my tracks back in the direction of the trail. I have gone farther than intended and can find no way down so, I begin crashing through Beech trees and Maples, swinging from one to the next like a skiing orangutan using them to try to slow down. There is nothing graceful about this, branches lash my face and my skis frequently become tangled in the shrubbery. But. I feel giddy, triumphant.

It takes me nearly an hour to make my way to the truck. There Oakley is waiting. I thought he would be annoyed that I took so long, but no, he is smiling. His cheeks are ruddy and his hat is pushed back on his head, airing out a sweaty forehead. “Aw mom, I wrecked my knees! You should see them. I wiped out so bad. It was awesome!”

“Well, I chased a bear!” As we share stories and load our skis into the truck, I am struck by the fact that this really what we do on all adventures. Chase bears. Both of us in different ways. Our expeditions aren’t complete without those moments when we reach for whatever it is that fills us up. For him, it is physical intensity, for me, it is a story, a tale of adventure, and a connection to something that feels bigger.

What is your bear?

I am losing my mind. I am sure of it, but what option do I have? This morning, when I walked my husband to the ferry to send him off to work in the city, the temperature was hovering around ten degrees and the wind chill was driving it down deep into the negative digits. “It might be too cold for my bike commute,” I mumble, hoping that Twain will quickly agree with me and maybe even insist that I stay home.

“Nah.”

I try again, “It is freezing, and this wind is punishing!”

“You will be fine. What are you, a wimp now?” With that he gives me a goodbye kiss and boards the ferry, leaving me alone to deal with my demons.

Those are fighting words to me and like it or not, I know that I am going to walk home and climb aboard my bike to ride around this god-forsaken island twice to complete my nine-mile commute to my home bathroom/office. But, rather than being annoyed by his pressure, I actually appreciate it and feel myself rising to the challenge. After being married for nearly 25 years, he knows that sometimes I need to be pushed off the curb, for my own good.

I growl back in his general direction, but I feel my mind shifting from trying to find excuses into preparation mode. What will I need to survive this ride with all my digits intact? I will need rain pants over my sweatpants to block the wind, yet give my legs a full range of motion. I will need wool socks and leather boots to keep my toes from freezing. I will need insulated windproof mittens, a warm hat under my helmet, and a scarf to keep out the wind that will surely scream through the zipper on my down jacket. And ski goggles, I think my son Oakley has a pair that I can borrow. That should do it. That and some fine tunes blasting through my headphones so that I can feel like I am starring in my own superhero movie.

When I am all geared up, and ready to depart, I glance in the mirror that hangs inside our front door. What I see there looks far more like a cartoon character than a superhero. My hair sticks out from my helmet like straw, uncut for many months. My face looks pinched and severe, aging rapidly from the cold and wind that has been pummeling it through all our winter adventures. My yellow rain pants bag around my ankles making me look like a cross between a duck and an overgrown toddler.

I realize at that moment that I have turned the corner on crazy. A teenagers nightmare of a mother.

However, there is nothing to be done about it. I zip up the last two inches of my jacket and step into the cold. The wind blasts up around me, and my hair flies into my mouth. I crank up the tunes on earphones and do a little warm-up dance as I pull my bike out of the rack.

I take solace in the fact that many of us are turning the corner on crazy right now, and I hope my neighbors don’t judge me too harshly as they see me pass by. Their crazy is probably just a little more private. And I know it is this, or bite my son Oakley’s head off for just being a teenager. This, or nag my husband right up off the roof. This, or run for the hills. This or give up.

I don’t plan or hope to do any of those things. Instead, I will embrace crazy and laugh at my reflection. I can’t bear to hide inside.

The ride is bracingly beautiful and other than chilly toes and a numb thumb I am quite warm, the heat radiating from my heart and belly and rebuffing the cold morning air.

By the time I arrive home, I am nearly looking forward to my day of zoom counseling and the cozy chair that will cradle me for the rest of the day. Tonight, I will need to repeat this adventure for my evening commute home from work. It is like medicine. My son greets me on the front steps. “You look crazy,” he says.

“I am just doing what I have to do.” We all are.

We step out from the shelter of the ice-shrouded firs onto the bold, rock summit of Mount Moosilauke. Here the wind howls to a screaming pitch, forcing the snow to slam into our skin like frozen sand. My ears ache, my cheeks burn, and my eyes become narrow slits. Up ahead, I see nothing but white. I know the top is close, but how close? 100 yards? A half a mile? The difference feels like it could be a lifetime.

“Twain, I am not sure about this!” I look back at my husband. His cheeks are bright pink, and the fringe of his bangs are frozen into white barbs. I have to shout to be heard. The walk up to this point had been a long, steady incline, a five-mile meander through the safety of thick spruce and fir forest. It had given no hint as to the intensity we would find near the top of this mountain. Now we have to make a decision. We are trying to climb all 48 of the 4,000-foot mountains in New Hampshire, as a way to combat middle-age and COVID fatigue, and getting close to one of the summits doesn’t count. If we don’t make it, we have decided that we will have to climb all this way again.

“I can see a cairn up there!” he shouts. “Let’s just get that far and then decide!” I try to slip deeper into the neck of my parka and pull my hat more firmly over my ears. The snow is blasting into every crevice it can find.

“Okay, but that is it!” We scurry forward, through the blizzard to the rock cairn. Up ahead, I think I see another one, leading us to the top, but could it be a small, ice-encased, gnarled tree instead? “Okay, I will go to the next, but really, then we are just being stupid and should turn back. I don’t want to get lost up here!”

I am often in a quandary about whether I am being a wimp, or using good judgment. I really never know. How hard should I push myself? When is enough actually enough? When am I letting my optimism become a liability? I have been in the wilderness countless times and have even led many expeditions, yet all my experience amounts to little in these moments.

Heads bowed, faces turned to the side to avoid the full brunt of the icy gusts, we continue on, the wind bandying us about like human flags. My skin is burning now, and I begin to feel afraid. A slight panic pulls at my chest. “I want to call it!” I shout to Twain. Before he has time to respond, I see the hazy outline of a man about 40 feet ahead. “There is someone up there. Let’s go to him, and see how close we are, but then, really, that is it!”

We stagger across to the figure and see he is wearing back-country skis, goggles, snowpants, gaiters and over-mitts. It looks like this is not his first adventure. “It is terrible up here!” he shouts. “Real frostbite weather! Cover your skin!” I try to, but my scarf has turned to a stiff board and is no longer pliable enough to snug around my neck. “We are almost there!” he bellows. “Follow me!”

He continues forward into the white, his skis handily allowing him to stay above the drifts that have collected around the ice-covered boulders that seem to be circling the top. Twain and I are not so lucky, and post-hole behind him. Soon the post-holing turns to crawling to keep up closer to the top, pushing our mittens like boxing gloves into the snow.

Then, there it is. The sign that marks the top. I smile at our helper, trying to convey my thanks, and turn to try to scurry off this ridge as soon as possible. No time for niceties. I look back towards the cairns that will lead us back to the safety of the tress, but now I see nothing. Nothing. It is all white. Suddenly I understand how people can get lost 100 feet away from the safety of a shelter. A white-out is indeed just that.

I look down and see the holes that our crawling and post-holing have left behind. They can be my guide if we move quickly before they fill in. They are like the quickly disappearing bread crumbs left by Hansel and Gretel. And so we do, from one to the next until we reach a cairn, and then the next, and then the next.

And then we are safe. Once we reach the ice-encrusted trees, they create a wall, protecting us from the merciless wind. My hair is frozen into long ropey icicles, my hat has become a block of ice, and my cheeks burn, but inside I am warm. Hot even.

We decide to run down so we don’t get chilled, and we bound through the snow, stuffing sandwiches into our mouths as we move. The snow cushions our footsteps, and the woods spread out before us in a muffled beauty. “This is idyllic,” says Twain when we stop to catch our breath. I look around and take it all in. I feel the strength in my legs and in my chest and my heart. I feel like a child again, out playing in this world. Today, I made the right choice.

“Just jump.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“It is easy; a little hop.”

“Easy for you!”

We are three-quarters of the way up Hancock Mountain, a 4,300-foot peak in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and we have come to an icy river. The water is cascading down the slope, tumbling over rocks and boulders and splashing them with a quickly-frozen spray. A few days ago, it was a passable stream, but now, due to recent heavy rain, which melted much of the snow up on the summit, it has swollen to a knee-high, frothy torrent. The only way to cross is to hop from one ice-covered rock to another, again and again. And I can’t jump.

I never could. It is a weakness of mine. I blame it on my high school sport of diving, when I could rely on the board’s spring to propel me upward. The ground doesn’t give, but my body acts like it should. My highest leap is just shy of three inches. The cold water is calling to my feet, teasing me with its chortling splashes and bounces, and I know just like the river does, that my feet are going in.

“Come on,” coaxes Twain, my husband. “If Cricket can do it so can you.” I look over at Cricket who is indeed standing on the other side. Her long, black shaggy fur has turned into a coat of icicles, and she stares at me anxiously. Yes, she crossed, but she didn’t stay dry. Regardless, there is no choice; this is the way home. I rock from front to back at the water’s edge, trying to gather momentum, and I leap, perform an ungraceful pirouette between the rocks, and land with a splash in the water. It instantly fills my boots and rises up my pant legs. I scramble to the shore and stand beside Cricket, beginning to match her icicle for icicle.

“What was that?” Twain asks incredulously. He is simply amazed by what a klutz I am.

What it was, was a fall. Something of which I have recently grown quite accustomed in its many variations.

For example, I have been yelling at my children, arguing with my husband about stupid things, and being generally irritable and mopey—falls from my generally upbeat self. I know, I know—I am so lucky and should feel grateful, but the “gratitude thing” never works for me, it just makes me feel badly about myself. It makes me feel ashamed for feeling low, which in turn only makes me feel worse.

It seems like everyone is climbing mountains these days, ones far more difficult than the ones I choose. Teenagers climb through hours of screen time to complete a day of virtual school. The elderly climb through endless days of isolation, trying to maintain a sense of hope. People are climbing through poverty just trying to feed and house their families. Everybody climbing mountains of struggle, and here I am, creating challenge just for the fun of it.

I guess a big reason that I am doing all these adventures is so that I can feel like I am conquering something, during this time that feels akin to swimming in molasses. Plus, these adventures give me endorphins that flood my body just like the river flooded my boots. They are like happiness candy. They also remind me that the world is an incredible place, full of resilience, beauty, and strength.

This time we had to turn back after my icy dunking. We scrambled down the mountain and into the truck, where I whipped off my boots and massaged the blood back into my toes. But next weekend we will try again. I will keep climbing. I hope we all do.

It seems these days that many people are flocking to the woods, mountains, or even just their neighborhoods in an effort to walk away the Covid blues. Everywhere that Oakley and I wander, there is evidence of people coming before us, no matter how early in the morning we get out, or how out of the way any given trail is, there are always snowshoe tracks, ski tracks, dog tracks, and crampon tracks. A veritable parade of people seeking solace in the outdoors.

This week Oakley and I decided to stay in our neighborhood and attempt a biathlon of sorts. We drove our truck to one side of Portland, Maine, near the Presumpscot River and dropped our bikes. Then we drove back across town, to the far side of Congress Street, which bisects the city, and began walking. We were following the Forest City Trail. It is part of the Portland Trails system and combines sections of trails through various parks, through neighborhoods, and along waterways. No isolated mountain peaks or gnarly river crossing this week. Just a holiday-week walk in the park.

We meandered through the Stroudwater Preserve, across the flats of the Fore River Sanctuary, beside Jewel Falls, along the backside of Evergreen Cemetery, into Oak Nut park, and ended at the Presumpscot River Preserve. The trails were heavily traveled, and a packed trench through the deep snow made by snowshoes and hikers’ boots made walking easy.

We learned there are 152 miles of trails that comprise this city trail system, plenty to wear oneself out. In fact, it only took us these first 10. True to form, Oakley and I had a great time for the first ninety percent of our trip. We chatted and raced, ate footlong subs from a Subway shop that happens to be at the halfway point, when the trail leaves the woods for a block and parallels a commercial strip before cutting back in to a local park, and shared our appreciation of the natural beauty to be found right here in the city limits.

At mile eight, we began to flag. Exhaustion made us begin to bicker, and bickering is distracting and leads to taking wrong turns. Don’t get me wrong, the trail is very well marked, but when all the blood is in your belly from a foot-long Subway sandwich instead of in your brain, and your teenage son begins haranguing you about how long he has been walking in his steel-toed Timberland boots, your vision gets cloudy. Let’s just say 10 miles turned into 12 1/2.

When we finally reached our bikes, the sun was setting and a panic set in — how to make it back to our truck on our bikes before darkness came. As usual, we were a bit unprepared, this time without lights! But what is an adventure without a bit of adrenaline?

Off we biked, pell-mell, hurdy-gurdy, like bats out of hell through the city. Feet spinning, sweat building and breathing like race horses, making it back to our truck just as night began to fall.

One doesn’t have to add this excitement to a walk on Portland’s beautiful trail system…but one can if that is what one needs.

After my second cup of coffee, I wipe the sleepy tears from my eyes and head out into the winter morning. It is time for my commute to work, but today, instead of climbing aboard my bike, I step into my cross-country skies. The snow is nearly a foot-and-a-half deep and beckons to come romp in its pillowy softness. Into the woods behind my house, I glide, Cricket barking at my heels.

Some kind soul has walked this path in snowshoes before me and made deep, packed channels that snake through the trees. The snow clings to branches like dollops of whipped cream and holds the sounds of the forest, muffling them, and making the air feel thick and still.

A little farther on, I see the signs of a turkey that must have been dancing in the moonlight last night, its tail feathers creating a ringed pattern in the snow, reminiscent of what a dancer might leave from spinning in a reed-grass skirt. The feathers cut sharp furrows in the powder, forming concentric rings that spiral ever outward.

I slide down a hill onto the community soccer field and find that a quiet fog has pushed off the ground and hangs in a strip, hovering shoulder high. I duck under it and then stand up tall. My face pokes in and out of the mist. The cool wetness is caressing and the humid air, a balm.

Back into the woods again, this time with gathering speed, up and over snow-covered logs and stones, hills and hummocks, until I reach a ridge from which I can see the ocean through the trees. I stop and wait.

These are dark days. As a mental-health counselor, I am running out of consoling words. “It will get better,” I promise. “We are all in this together,” I remind. “You are resilient,” I beg. But, I see my clients’ worn faces and hear of their isolation and increasing exhaustion, and I feel I am running out of tools to help. All I want for them is to be out here, finding dancing turkeys, frozen seafoam, and ducking under snowy mist. This is the best medicine, this is where there is still boundless hope and beauty.

As I stand waiting, the sun finally makes its appearance, seeming to have to prod itself up over the horizon in a half-hearted effort to lift above the trees. It seems tired, like many of us are, like it needs to rest. But as the sun changes hues from orange to yellow, I watch it gather strength and commit to another day, to bringing a little more light to our world, every day from here on out.

Happy Solstice. The light is coming.

All along the ridge of Pleasant Mountain the snow has collected into deep, velvety drifts. It covers the blueberry bushes and boulders with a forgiving, white, creamy pillow nearly two and a half feet deep. It is the first real snow of the season here and twice as beautiful for that.

Oakley and I begin post-holing across the ridge to the summit, some mile-and-a-half away. Our hike up had been well-traveled and we had moved quickly with just our crampons. But now, at the summit, with each step we plunge our legs into the snow up to our mid-thighs. Nobody has been here, so there is no packed trail. We have no snow shoes with us, no gaiters, and no snow pants, but the sun is out and due to both our giddiness and our exertions we do not feel cold at all. In fact, as our pants become sodden and their wetness sticks to our legs, it feels almost welcome. We feel ridiculous in a perfect way.

Oakley bounds ahead, laughing out loud every time he steps off a ledge and is startled by how deep the snow pockets are. “This is crazy!” He calls out to the world. He is giraffe-like these days, and his long legs nimbly step up and out of every drift, before he plunges purposely into the next.

I follow him, weaving and staggering in his wake, but I am laughing as well. He looks back and giggles at my clumsiness. I grin back. “I am coming, I am coming!”

Taking up the rear is our dog, Cricket. She has to hurdle up and over the deep snow, again and again. Ice balls gather between her toes and every few moments she takes a break to sit back and nibble them out. Her efforts look monumental.

As we travel on, Cricket begins to wear out. She goes slower and slower and the distance between us lengthens. Then I hear her start to cry. This was something I hadn’t anticipated. I wait for her and when she catches up her eyes are pleading. This is too much for her, but we have gone too far to go back. “Oaks!” I call, “We need to drag our feet to make a path for Cricket! No more post holing—she can’t make it.”

Without further ado he begins dragging his feet through the piles of snow to create a path. I follow suit, and Cricket, the little princess, begins prancing jauntily behind us.
This is hard work, and we begin to truly sweat. Our energy begins to flag. If we stop, though, we will freeze. Our pants are now soaked up to our hips, and it is well below freezing.
I take out our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and we eat them and share them with Cricket as we continue on. She is delighted, unaware of how hard we are working to cross the ridge for her benefit.

Finally we reach the second summit, where to our surprise we meet a band of 12 senior women who had snow-shoed up the other side. They are chattering on like a flock of Canadian Grey Jays, offering encouragement and suggestions to one another as they navigate their way to the look out. Talk about some some hardy ladies. I hope I get a chance to join them some day when Oakley finally does leave me behind. Thanks to them, there is a packed trail all the way back down to the road.

And so we run, down off the mountain, feet flying, crampons sticking, wet pants drooping, jackets flopping and deliciously exhausted again.