Ammi Midstokke: Mountain medicine for the soul

They say that we cannot rush our healing, but I am pretty sure “they” just don’t hike enough.

The mountains, along with the immeasurable joy and suffering they bring, are a potent tincture of healing that I return to often. This time, with specific intention of slathering the balm of their glacial views and alpine lake water on the wounds of a broken heart. As always, they provide and give me a new sense of perspective – usually a blatant reminder that my sorrows are as impermanent and unimportant as the latest shoe fashion.

Mountains are also a reminder that all things have a life cycle, even relationships. Thus far, I have not been effective at manifesting one with a life span any longer than the success of home shopping network kitchen gadgets. French-fry dicers and vacuum hair trimmers have more marketable longevity than dating me. I have a set of kitchen knives that have diced their way through the entire soap opera dynasty of my adult life.

It is not for lack of trying on anyone’s part, but rather a blatant kind of optimism that is swaddled in the ability to see the elevated potential in anything and anyone. I’m pretty sure it is this exact optimism that gets me into trouble in the mountains.

The ranger is showing me a trail that winds up a canyon to a pass, Ball Pass, in the Canadian Rockies. This time, I’m so jaded, I need to go nurse my injuries in a foreign country. He’s talking in kilometers and I basically halve everything he says in my head as he shows me the turnaround point 10 kilometers in.

“What are all these little lake things over here? Is that a trail to those little lake things?” He checks the system and tells me the trail is clear with patches of snow on the passes, there have been no bear sightings, and it’s about 50 kilometers if I cut corners.

The optimism is strong on this day. I cut myself some trail snacks with a Ginsu knife I bought myself for Christmas in college, still capable of slicing aluminum cans with the same efficacy that I sever myself from boyfriend candidates. Then I hike from British Columbia to Alberta.

It’s a long climb that starts with a deceptively delightful meandering through fields of spring flowers, winds its way along a creek, provides all the enticing rewards of the journey without any of the mosquitoes or ceaseless scree slogs to come. “This is great!” I am thinking as I trot up the trail happily for miles. And miles. And nearly twice as many kilometers.

The analogy is perfect. The first pass is bliss, I’m not even tired. Look at the incredible glacial views! It was so worth the work! Four hours later, I’m dancing at a creekside, swatting mosquitoes while I filter water desperately, wondering what the bloody purpose of these bugs is anyway as they threaten to carry me away like the flying monkeys in “The Wizard of Oz.”

Four hours after that, I’m standing on the edge of another alpine lake watching the sun set behind granite peaks. There is no wind. The water makes no sound. A kind of peace exists there, a stillness and contentment that appears to only be achieved when all other options have been exhausted.

In many ways, the mountains are my lover. I return to them again and again, to confide in them, to be consoled by them, and to scale the summits of ecstasy that must be experienced rather than imagined.

Four hours after that, I am still crossing creeks and crawling under logs in the night air. I don’t mind the tired legs, the chill, the fact that I had two energy bars for dinner, the scratches and bites, the fear of bears. It is not stamina that I lack, but perhaps that expectations are excessive.

I want the struggles to be met with reward of expansive views, the cool water of fresh mountain springs, and the gift of settling on a slab of rock to watch the sun set silently in the distance, knowing I earned the vista.

It was after midnight by the time I reached the car. Worn out yet filled up, the tiny fibers of my heart were mending as those of my legs were aching. The mountains had provided once more, and somehow they always seem to exceed my expectations.