My legs are stiff and awkward underneath me as I begin my shuffling jog along the snowy hard packed trail. 17 hours in the truck from California to Colorado has taken its toll. More quickly than expected the hollowness of the high mountain air catches my lungs off guard. Exacting its tax on the unacclimated body with empty promises laced in every breath. 200 yards into my favorite trail and I already am seeing stars.
Ellen and I have run this trail countless times. Hundreds of cumulative miles, sometimes coming in small handfuls of four to five while others in heaps of 20 or more – thousands of memories all nestled in and along this simple trail. So many times have I been on this same worn path that I swear some of these grooves were carved by my own two feet, and I could run it blindfolded if I had to.
Pushing through the burning in my chest I plod over the place where a misplaced step sent Ellen to the hospital with gash in her knee while on a moonlit run. Up and over a small rise I glance below to where, in warmer weather, our dogs seek out relief in a hidden pool of runoff to quench their thirst or muddy their fur.
My steps and breath begin to synchronize as my body emerges from the initial hypoxic fog. Supercooled snow yields a dry crunch underfoot as I look up to the steep canyon walls that shield the trail from what little winter sunlight may fall. Now the cold takes its turn. The tips of my ears already begin to burn, as do my fingers. Hot humid breath billows around my beard and off into nothingness behind me.
We are back home for a brief holiday visit. So far it has been one of our most memorable visits yet. We have now spent more time on the road than we have at home, yet somehow our friendships have strengthened. Bonds that were new and loosely held when we first decided to move away some six years ago have strengthened. Our friendships now have grooves of their own and we quickly fall into them once again.
As I make it up to the meadow forgivingly the trail levels out. My ears have gone completely numb but I am beginning to catch my breath. The dogs are trotting along side of me, only occasionally rushing ahead to investigate a rustling bush or to chase a helpless rodent careless enough to poke its head out of a snowy tunnel. For each dog this trail was the first hike they went on after their respective adoptions – it is not only special to the humans in our family. These are moments that all of us live for. Moments that we try to recreate while traveling but seem to always fall just short of with this simple trail back home. We have had some glorious moments together on the road. Surfing alongside a pod of dolphins in Big Sur, hiking under the northern lights, even trail running along a ridge-line 1,000ft above a mother grizzly and her two cubs. But these one-off experiences lack the same richness of home.
I’m climbing again. A zig-zagging path up to a saddle between small peaks. The snow is less packed down and it billows into the air with each foot fall working its way into the tops of my shoes and around my ankles. Not as many hikers and runners venture up this way come winter. My steps become choppy due to the pitch and unsteady footing. Rounding a sharp undulating turn I step on a large rock exposed in the middle of the trail nearly falling into the ravine below. Maybe I couldn’t run this trail blindfolded any more.
Lungs aching and throat burning from gasping such cold air I tuck my head and press onward. Working too hard to reminisce any longer I only focus on getting to the top. Despite the effort and fatigue plaguing my legs the pace quickens. I know these turns, the view that awaits at the top, the challenge of the final 100 yards that reduces most to a slow walk as the trail tips ever steeper towards the summit. My eyes widen and a slight surge of adrenaline is felt beneath my sternum. Moving quickly by any measure, for these fleeing moments I push past thoughts of pain and can no longer hear my pleading lungs. A smile creeps onto my half frozen face and I fly up the final ascent.
It is here, at the top, where memories hang as thick as my breath in the frigid air. A standard stopping point along training runs or mountain bike rides, we have been here, sitting on this same bench, with the same friends that we have come so far to visit and miss so much while we are away. Around the bend from here is the ridge where Ellen and I ran on our last run before leaving town as travelers so long ago. It is where we hiked with our newborn, having to change a diaper cliffside as no other place was as flat or clear of debris. I have laughed here, held my wife then later my child here, and even cried here when endorphins got the best of me during a long hot training run (I get emotional during multi-hour runs). And the view!
It is somewhere along the not-so-speedy descent that I realize what makes this trail, this place, so special to me. It is not the same as I remember. The trail has new twists and off-shoots that were not here the last time. Heavy spring rains wash out steeper sections only to have wild animals and people alike seek out new paths. Vegetation sprouts, grows, blooms, and dies over and over, claiming, loosing and re-claiming the edges of the trail less used. In similar fashion, in the time that we have been traveling we have had friends come and go and come back again. Households grow from one to two to five. Jobs change, homes are bought and sold or remodeled. Struggles have been faced by all of us. Really, nothing here is the same as it was when we first left six years ago, but neither are we.
Back at the truck Im thoroughly exhausted and nearly frostbitten. Quads and calves quiver as I load the dogs into the backseat and crank up the heater. We leave again in the morning, unsure when we are going to return. However, I am certain of one thing. Home will have changed again by the time we make it back, but so will we, and that is just how we like it.
Written by: Stephen Stockhausen
