August 19. Hikeathon Day 1. Moran Park Boundary Loop.

Sunday, August 19, Hikeathon Day 1. Moran Park Boundary Loop. 16.69 miles. 3240 ft elev. gain.

Dear Trail Friends,

Today I began a different kind of a trail adventure. For almost a year now I have been dreaming of a hikeathon/pilgrimage on Orcas Island. I cobbled together seven different day hikes, about 15 miles each, so I could hike 100 miles in one week.

I hoped that this would allow me to experience some of the magic I have found on the trail (by "the trail," I mean a long hike, with a backpack, somewhere far from home) – right here on Orcas. I also hoped that I would find a way to share my hikeathon idea with others, giving people who might not have the time, energy and money to invest in long distance backpacking a chance to experience some of the happiness I found on the trail.

I started out at 5:50am. The first thing I realized was that I was looking at Cascade Lake - which I have hiked around several thousand times – in the predawn light, that I had never seen it in that light, and that it looked beautiful and unfamiliar. I hope this hike will allow me to see familiar places and beauty with fresh eyes and with the sense of wonder and discovery I have so loved on the trail.

Photo 1 shows Cascade Lake as I began my hike.

It was like looking at an old friend and seeing her as if for the first time and falling in love.

Photo 2 is a map showing today's hike, which came as close to walking around the perimeter of Moran Park as I could come and stay on trails.

As I climbed the very steep West Boundary trail, I was struck by how exhilarating it was to do something difficult. I have been struggling with deep depression, which is part of why I decided to attempt the hikeathon now. When I feel depressed, I feel helpless and hopeless. How empowering it is to be able to put one foot in front of another, to head up a steep incline huffing and puffing and to imagine that I will walk a full 100 miles in one week. It felt so different from sitting at home, feeling as if a heavy heavy weight on my heart, mind and soul made it impossible to move or make decisions.

During my first rest stop, I felt that magical "here I am" feeling. I felt the kindness of the trees, that simply allowed me to be among them. They were all so present, and they let me be present too, no judgements, no conditions. We were just present together. Same time. Same place.

After completing the North Boundary trail, when I was circling the little Twin Lakes, I found myself seeing their beauty as if for the first time. Photo 3 is the big Twin.

I was struck by the deep reflections of the trees and how the lake offered me the sense of quiet and acceptance that allowed me to reflect deeply on my life. I was thinking of the depression, and also of (no doubt one of the sources of the depression) the approaching birthday of my niece Angel (August 21) and the one-year anniversary of her death (August 30).

As I walked around the little Twin Lake, I began to notice the sun. It was bright orange and I realized there was smoke in the sky. Luckily the smoke seemed high up, filtering the light but not significantly impacting air quality. Photo 4 shows the orange sun (except that my iphone camera couldn't quite get the orange) reflected in little Twin Lake.

As I walked I had a lot of fantasies about my hikeathon becoming a treatment for depression (especially depression rooted in trauma or traumatic loss). I thought about how many vets have walked wilderness trails and found their way back to a life worth living. I began to hope not only for my 100 miles, but for a lifting of the depression. Already I felt that the walking had freed me from depression's power to define me – that heavy feeling that I have always been and will always be in this hopeless helpless state, unloving and unloveable. So I was having all these grand fantasies of sharing the hikeathon idea with other depressed people and so helping them free themselves by walking through the beauty of Orcas Island. I know that a big part of the magic is walking long enough that my body is at the edge of what I am capable of - that seems to change brain chemistry in a way that opens me up to curiosity and wonder and beauty. There is room for all those little gasps when the air just comes into the chest on its own, the "wow, look at that." Beauty.

The smoke-filtered light had an eerie quality. There was a strange orange-red tint to the light as it shone through trees onto the forest floor. I've tried to give you a sense of it in the collage in photo 5.

I ate my lunch at Cascade Falls. I had walked my first six hours without seeing another person, but by lunchtime (and at a favorite tourist spot) there were quite a few people there. I found a place to sit on a log, take off my shoes, rub cream and aloe into my feet (which do tend to get red and hot, but so far have not vetoed the hike), and eat lunch. Most of the people were closer to the falls than I was, as you can see in photo 6.

At first I thought the sounds and presence of people would only distract from my pilgrimage, but then a boy and a girl, perhaps 5 or 6 years old, came plopping through the creek near me in their sandals. I loved see their adventurous spirit and I loved seeing them free for even a moment from constant adult scrutiny and protection, able to discover the world for themselves.  A little later a group of older children, perhaps 11 or 12, of different colors and nationalities came teetering slowly in their barefeet. "Oh you are so brave to be walking the creek in your barefeet," I called out to them. I felt such affection, and sent silent blessing to all these young people exploring our beautiful world. And of course I felt blessed to see them.

A little later a dog (off leash) pooped beside the creek just across from me. I thought of Chris's daughter Sandy (an expert in salmon and their environmental needs) telling me how important it is not to have dogs poop near water. I thought of letting the owners know how important it was. Then I tried to imagine how I could tell them without being intrusive or shaming. I decided it was a kindness to them to say nothing - and a kindness to myself. Perhaps not a kindness to the environment, but I felt peaceful. My mind went to a poem I had read recently (quoted in a journal I wrote in 1992).

Close (by David Huddle)

Later, drinking and talking,

my friend and I reached the coming

death of the planet. "It's no longer

a matter of pushing a button

we don't want to push," I say.

He says, "Yes, all we have to do

is live exactly as we’re living

right now." And I murmur,

"What do you think we have,

maybe a hundred years?"

Nodding with understanding how

we mean to murder our children,

he and I pierce our loneliness.

Then the dog owner came and picked up the dog poop and I felt blessed again.

After lunch, as I walked down from Cascade Falls toward the road and the South Arch at the south entrance to Moran Park, I began to notice that fall was arriving. There were leaves on the trail. I thought of my sister Judy talking about letting go as learning to trust. Autumn leaves have always made me think of letting go, maybe because the leaves themselves let go and allow themselves to fall from the tree that has been their only home. This makes me think of a poem I wrote. But first photo 7 looking up into an oak tree that is starting to look a little like autumn.

And now the poem (which seems to have been written in 2008, a couple months after my father's death).

What the Leaves Say about Heaven

At first we thought it was all about sunlight,

the sparkle and heat and how we could breathe

it in through our skin, breathe it in to

our very molecules that would shudder and shake

like the little internal combustion engines they were,

turning light into fuel for the real factories

inside us spinning sugar out of the sky. Oh the

sweetness we spun out of nothing but sunlight

and air, and how we passed it on freely down

our stems to the tree who had given us life,

we thought it was heaven to be so alive, to give

and receive, to feel the breeze, the light,

to drink it in and express with our entire

being the sweetness of life, to pump sweetness

back into the tree, to provide for the whole

whatever was needed.

We never expected the slow receding of light,

the darkness growing a little each day, until there

was not enough sweetness even to sustain our own

individual being—we never thought of ourselves

as separate before, until the diminishing light,

and something in us we hadn’t known before

sealed off our own stems, hoarded and held

the diminishing sweetness within us, and there we all were,

sealed into ourselves, and some of us changing

to gold or orange or red, and some of us brown–

beginning one by one, our sealed off stems growing

brittle and dry, beginning to break–

to break from the tree and fall down.

Alone. Lying wet and cold on the ground

all of us, sooner or later, the red and

the orange and gold, converging to brown.

Thinning and growing tattered,

pressed and smashed into each other

and into the earth, we never thought heaven

would be this dark reunion,

this finding each other again.

I am struck as I read it by recalling that one of the things that eased my depression was imagining that my niece Angel may at times have felt some similarly painful depressed feelings - may have felt at times hopeless and helpless, may have felt something like the heavy weight and darkness I express when I am depressed. The idea that being depressed might be a way of understanding her, being close to her, comforted and consoled me.

And with that, my friends, I will stop for today. Thank you so much for walking with me. I hope to see you tomorrow on the trail. We will be walking tomorrow at the San Juan County Land Bank Turtleback Preserve and the San Juan Preservation Trust's Turtlehead Preserve. How lucky I am that so many people stepped up and donated money to buy and preserve these areas. Not to mention Robert Moran who bought and donated the land that became Moran State Park. So much to be grateful for.