Off the Grid: Intention is a fail-safe resolution
As I age, I have come to realize that there are traits and habits I am more committed to than change.
This is what I am thinking about several miles into an unknown trail up an unknown mountain with an unknown destination. And Christmas fudge, which seems an appropriate fuel for such an adventure if only I had brought some. Instead, I have a cardboard energy bar.
When my family suggested we visit my mother-in-law in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for the New Year, the first thing I did was look for mountains to get lost in discover. I was pleased to find they have them in New Mexico, too. I asked my husband to drop me off at one trailhead and implied I’d emerge from another sometime before sundown. Or dark. Or not long after because I didn’t have a headlamp.
There are some personality traits one can accept as rather permanent. There are others we try to change every year on Jan. 1.
What used to be an annual ritual of resolve to stop doing some perceivably bad thing (smoking, drinking, dating morons) has been slowly replaced by a more zen version of “setting intentions” (packing a headlamp or map, complaining less). Intention-setting is a fail-free means of coping with the disappointment of New Year’s resolutions that run flat by February. It is resolve’s ineffective but well-liked little brother.
The people I resent are those who scoff at my list of New Year’s Intentions and flatly say, “I don’t do resolutions,” as if they don’t bother themselves with predictable failure or simply accept themselves as who they are. This kind of enlightenment should not be so blatantly displayed.
I pass one of those types on the trail toward Sandia Crest. He’s wearing a sleeveless white training top that accentuates his nipples, and his full head of hair has so much swagger it is its own personality. I make the mistake of asking him how far the next trail intersection is and his answer has me making up a long story about him: Dr. Brown has a successful medi-spa practice to which he commutes twice a week in a Porsche Boxster.
He likes spinning, microgreens, not getting dirty on the trail, and condescending other hikers. He wants to shop at Faherty but knows his hair will disapprove of even the poshest flannel, so he sticks to cashmere turtlenecks when he’s in Aspen.
I note that I ought to have a New Year’s Intention to not judge others, but I think I have that one every year. When did asking for information in the Great Outdoors become an embarrassing admission of naivety? It was clear this guy thought I was out of my league when he gave me the distances in minutes. Then he asked if I had a headlamp.
Doesn’t the sun set way later in New Mexico? Turns out, it does, but the minutes also last longer. My only consolation was that I hoped this cat spent the rest of his hike worrying about some silly tourist girl who would probably have to get rescued that night. I make it a point to never have to get rescued after being patronized by a taut man with an artificial tan.
As I made my way up the desert trail, I contemplated the things that get an undeserved amount of real estate in my brain. It is mostly mean people. They move into my psyche, uninvited, and become squatters that rob the joy from my experiences.
Once, some man yelled at me about my (service) dog with such vehemence, despite the giant red labeling on her vest, that I spent a three-hour glorious run thinking of things I’d wished I said to him. I don’t remember the views or how many miles of wooded bliss I missed.
I don’t want to do that anymore. Those blips, encounters, people in our life are often lacking in any meaningful impact. We give them power by clinging to our imaginary battles with them, by letting them distract us from what is really happening around us.
I reach the intersection at 8,400 feet and 6.2 miles into the trail. The last few hundred feet, I mostly thought about the phenomenon of thin air and oxygen-starved quads. When I crested the pass, I could see down the long, winding canyon I would run. I checked my watch and the map. Sunset at 5:05 p.m., 4-ish miles by my estimate, and the air would just get richer along the way. I smiled the kind of smile one feels in their toes and belly. It’s a deeply satisfied sense of joy of the moment.
I sent my husband a common message: Battery low. Trying to make it before sundown. I think I’m not lost. See you in an hour. Or so.
Every blessed step of that trail was a gift from Mother Nature. It wound through high desert forests for miles and then skirted the edge of a canyon, changing from packed soil rollers to tight boulders and switch backs. I giggled with delight as my dog and I raced against the setting sun. In the distance, beyond the horizon of the glimmering lights of Albuquerque, the sun left a flaming streak across the sky and turned the whole desert purple.
Just as the trail was getting hard to see, it dropped to the canyon floor in a wide and even path toward the edge of town. I breathed in the night air and trotted between the dark clumps of cacti. It seems all the miracles and wonders in life are happening right in this very moment.
Far too important for just an intention, I resolve to stay in those moments as much as I possibly can.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com