Yesterday we ventured to the trail of my first solo early morning mountain run; linking together the expansive trail systems - quadrupling that first endeavor - felt culminating of my progress.
It was a late April morning two years ago as I drove through the farmland southwest of Harrisonburg. There is something unexplainable, and irrational now, about the pitch-black and being alone that sets off a cascade of every possible scenario that could go wrong. Playing through my head like the videos you'd fast forward on your VCR to get to the desired scene, but you still catch every second.
I kept feeling the urge to turn back. "What are you even doing? You don't need to go out into the forest by yourself in the dark. This is ridiculous".
I didn't know the trails well then, or at all. I certainly didn't have the same connection, understanding of the geography. I didn't have the sense of belonging. The trusting relationship.
Not with the forest.
Or myself.
This felt like unchartered territory.
Mistie was the only reason I didn't turn around. I adopted her the week prior, and in hindsight had overly heavy trust in her to be off leash protecting me so soon. It worked though. I reasoned with myself that she'd keep me safe and it's what kept the car in motion.
Feels quite silly to admit this now, as people approach me with questions of the area and trails - it wasn't that long ago that I would go out there terrified. It's a feeling still familiar. And part me of me never wants to forget that - because that's where we all start.
For many, this comes with historical context of racism in outdoor recreation, fear instilled from parents, selectively hearing stories of how single women go out into the forest and never come back. It's always the woman.
6:05a - I only remember that from the timestamp on my phone as I started to see a slight sliver of red hue in the sky. I took a photo so I wouldn't forget that sensation of fear shifting to welcoming.
I journaled that morning after:
"and as the sun illuminated the fields, burning through the valley fog - it did the same to my own sense of mystery, terrified, and dangerous. Shining on something that was now magical and marvelous and majestic. I became eager, I felt at home, I was ready. I felt…welcomed. Was it the dark I feared? Getting lost? Feeling helpless and alone and unknowing? I was lacking the confidence and ownership. A hopeful light, spotlight of guidance, can be all it takes to feeling at home and in love with an experience."
A metaphoric, magnifying glass on myself. Nature has a way of doing that, I soon found. And that light was all the confidence I needed.
These thoughts passed through me yesterday when running on those trails that I first ventured solo - the confidence I built in that moment, the trust with myself, the connection with the world around me.
I whole-heartedly understand why people don't feel comfortable. Like they don't belong. It's scary. At any moment you could get chased by a bear or twist your ankle. Both aren't unlikely.
Elizabeth and I talked about that - how grateful we are to feel safe outside. How many people miss out, stay on the treadmill because of lack of access, safety, equipment, reassurance or simply someone to show them the way. Many friends have supportively paved the way for me.
As we made our final descent, on the trail that I first climbed to catch the sunrise that morning in April two years ago. We turned a corner on a startled hiker. She reactively clutched to her dogs, and we reassured her that she was safe. We had been out there for almost four hours and hadn't seen a soul. With a humorous undertone, yet I know in full honesty, she shared how it felt like someone was following her on the trail. Oh, the fast-forwarding VCR imagination of all situations that could go wrong - I understood the feeling.
We ended up getting into conversation for a good while. A woman about our age, who moved to here from AZ. On her first hike of the area. Professing her lack of trail comfort. But what I saw was a badass doing it anyways.
It's hard to get lost around here, and we shared the landmarks she can use for direction - the different ridges from the trail and what's ahead. We shared names, and how we will soon meet up for beer and how nice it is to have friends.
It snowed that morning; it wasn't the fairest of conditions for a first hike in a new town. That's the thing about the forest, about venturing into the unfamiliar and uncomfortable new territory. A sliver of sunrise, a little guidance, is all it takes. On the other side is a deeper relationship with the area around you. With yourself. And sense at home - in both.