I'm a walker. Whenever feasible, I stroll wherever I need to go. I find it much more motivating to walk rapidly toward something I love- like the theater or a gas station- than simply around in circles toward chafed thighs and a bad attitude. My brother is a runner. He woke up one morning six years ago and decided to become a marathoner. So he did. By the end of that week. Once, in an attempt to be a supportive sister, I jumped in on a marathon he was running at mile 25 for ONE BLOCK. I figured by mile 25 he'd be at a pace I could easily match. Well, I matched Scott's "hardest part of the race" pace for almost entirely half a city block before collapsing on the sidewalk and wheezing out good luck wishes along with the entirety of my saliva as he sped away.
Point being, I use walking as my primary means of exercise. But I've been slacking on my workout regimen of late, and here in Idaho, I'm determined to remedy that. Hailey, ID is great for a million gazillion reasons- one of which is its similarity to Richmond, VA in that you can walk anywhere you need to be in under 30 minutes. (It is NOT great for the sole reason that anyone with normal lengthed arms CANNOT reach the second row of vegetables at the Atkinson's salad bar due to the imposing plexiglass salad bar roof which cuts you off at the clavicle, and therefore may NOT have the tomatoes, the mushrooms, or the red peppers, but that's another story.) So I've been strolling around- back and forth to play practice, my favorite Hailey gas station*, the movie theater, and so forth.
Things are going well. I'm feeling healthy. Then comes Monday. We have a photo shoot for our play. I'm handed a lovely green dress- beautifully made, twirls, all the good stuff. I slip it on, button it up, and fasten the belt. I turn around and face the mirror. I am Dolly Parton. As a crunchy brunette instead of a coiffed blonde.
I screw up my face. This will not do. There's a moment in this play where I am expected to stuff a cookie into my cleavage and I would prefer to remove it one page later as a solid. Not as dust. I'm going to have to ramp up my exercise regimen.
I know! I'm surrounded by mountains! I shall go HIKING.
This is a great idea. I fancy myself quite the woodswoman ever since my third ever camping experience two weekends ago during which, one morning, after a dewy morning stroll to the scented port-a-let, I realize I am the only person awake. So I shimmy up a tree by the river and sit quietly watching the sunrise. As I sit, I hear a roaring. My first thought is that it's a jet. It's not. It's an elk. An elk crossing the river. I watch it cross. It cuts behind the port-a-potties and disappears into the woods. Oh my God, I think. I'm motherf*%#ing Pocahontas! I remain in the tree until other campers have awoken and ventured down to the river. "An elk! An elk just walked past the campsite! Did you see that?!?," they exclaim. From my perch I turn my head slowly, hoping the rising sun is silhouetting my profile in a very regal way, and intone, "Yes. I've been up here for hours watching the rising sun. I saw the creature cross the river." Everyone is very jealous. I continue to sit in the tree feeling very self important and imagining myself a mountain ninja for holding so still that an actual elk from actual nature felt comfortable enough to cross the river right in front of me. I sit until both my legs fall asleep and until everyone has retreated to the other side of the camp to make breakfast so I can painstakingly inch my way back down the tree without anyone seeing me potentially crash to the ground and ruin the illusion that I am at perfect one with Mother Earth.
This experience, along with the fact that I saw a moose once, convince me that I am fully equipped to be a hiker.
Tuesday morning. 6AM. I wake up. I consider starting my hike. Then I think, no. That's ridiculous. Is nature even open at this hour? I go back to sleep. 10AM. I have no real excuse. I don my favorite maroon overalls and glittery squirrel baseball cap and drive to the foot of the nearest mountain. Drawing a deep breath of fresh mountain air, I start up the trail. It's amazing. I am taking the mountain by the peak, so to speak, and really experiencing life. Eight yards later I realize I'm walking up someone's driveway. Retreat.
I find the actual trail. I am stuck behind the only other person for miles and miles- a very kind woman walking a dog named Lola. Lola is not inclined to power walk. Lola has a close personal relationship with every dandelion along the path. Lola's mother keeps telling her to "come along, Lola." I start hissing "come along, Lola" under my breath. Half a mile later, it's being hissed over my breath. Fortunately Lola and mom cut off the trail shortly thereafter to meet some buddies at the foot of the mountain.
Speaking of the foot of the mountain- said foot is at this point roughly seven inches below where I'm walking. I am feeling snooty and unimpressed with this so-called "hiking." Where are the REAL mountains? Where is that mountain I brazenly skied down on my first trip to Idaho thinking my Virginia skiing experience would serve me well, but then realizing that ski mountains in VA are really only mosquito bites and ultimately taking an entire hour to reach the bottom of the slope. On my butt.
Whatever. It will be a good experience, this "hiking". I am enjoying how the Idaho dandelions Lola was so fond of look like Virginia dandelions on roids. Could easily be used as ninja stars. I'm also walking quickly, as is my habit, and can tell my heart rate is elevated. I can FEEL my boobs dissolving.
Suddenly- a quandary. The path I'm on stretches ahead- carrying on at its seven inch elevation. To my left, there appears a much thicker, rockier path leading straight up the mountain. I hang it.
Now we're getting somewhere. I am HIKING. I can tell because I know that when I decide to come back down I am absolutely going to fall down the hill. It's that steep. My mother's going to be furious. I hike and hike and shrink my boobs for about twenty minutes. Then I happen upon a birch log which seems to have just fallen out of nature as a bench. I sit. I gaze. I am, again, a regal nature princess. I decide to call my brother. He is very impressed that I am hiking. I tell him all about the trails and pathways he'll need to run when he's here in a couple of weeks. I tell him about how the first trail I was on was for wussies and that I have adventured beyond. He says, "What about wildlife? You know, you have to be careful out there." I draw breath to sniff dismissively. Before I can exhale I remember with bracing clarity the cougar scare that plagued the town for 2 weeks the last time I was here. Well, crap. On the one hand, a cougar attack would be a solid excuse for getting out of rehearsal.** But I desperately do NOT want my brother to think I am anything short of Bear Grylls, so I say something I've heard on some TV show somewhere- probably Shark Week and therefore entirely irrelevant- "Oh, well, in the summer months creatures are not driven to the lowlands." We hang up. I consider descending and going home. But, as I am my father's daughter, I continue on. I text my stage manager to let her know that I will potentially die on this mountain. I'm a responsible actor.
The path changes. Rather than a path, so much, I'd call this a "maybe a worm crawled through this grass- once.". But I am Pocahontas. I am not afraid. Then I step on a grouse and experience heart palpitations and turn around immediately.
I text all my friends- "I just stepped on a grouse" - as I figure I'll want to remember that, and start off in search of a different route.
I find my original trail and happily make my way back home.
Gotcha. NOPE. I find ANOTHER uncharted "trail" heading to the peak at a 90 degree angle. That seems good.
I hike. I hike and hike and hike. I hike and pant and hike and gasp and hike and finally sit the hell down. I think maybe I've hiked enough for one day. It's been two hours. I've sweated. I've posted an Instagram photo of a dandelion. I try to justify my quitting pre-peak by telling myself I'll do this again when my brother gets here. But the part of me that's my dad kicks back in. I continue to hike. Pant, gasp, hike, sit. I should've brought water, I think. Not just the dregs of a Orange Vanilla Coke Zero. I think about cougars. I'm bracing my feet in the rocks to rise again and resume my heroic journey when a bee becomes very interested in my backpack.
I stand still. I think about cougars. Cats are the worst. While not tickled about the bee, I'm not afraid. But wait- I can use this! Swiftly my brain does the math and yes- yes! I can justify abandoning this hike as a result of the bee! I WAS allergic as a tiny child, and despite the fact that ever since I was stung on my way to a piano lesson at the age of fourteen and realized there on the sidewalk that I was no longer allergic (but used the sting to get out of my lesson anyway)-I think here, on this mountain, with only the grouse to judge me- I can use that excuse again!
I scamper/tumble down the mountain. This is really the best decision for everyone. My mother I'm sure would prefer I not be consumed by a cougar, my stage manager would prefer not to send my director on as Lenny MacGrath in "Crimes of the Heart" (thought he'd be brilliant), and I'd prefer to exercise myself over to the gas station to buy a squirt gun before I try this again. That's what you use on a naughty cats. right?
*The Stinker
**Rehearsals are actually LOVELY.
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