bunchberry
New member
A friend of mine sent out a most welcome email during the week to a huge list of people: “Anyone want to go snowshoeing this weekend? I’ll drive!” Well, yes, I most definitely did want to go snowshoeing during the weekend and the only thing holding me back was the lack of a car: perfect. We both confessed to each other that we were feeling miserably out of shape, so it needed to be a very moderate hike – nothing too strenuous. We debated Sunapee, Crawford, Kearsarge North, and Jennings Peak/Sandwich Dome, which eventually won out due to location. Two other women were going to join us, and I was feeling tremendously excited.
My emotions surrounding a hike are fascinating to me…there is so much build-up, anticipation, and excitement, and these feelings only grow stronger during the long drive north. I often feel an extreme happiness—giddiness, almost—and deep gratitude for the experience I’m about to have.
At the trailhead: apprehension. Did I forget something? Will I be strong enough to keep up with the others? Will we get views? My mind goes into overdrive, until I take those first few steps up the trail. Then, peace and serenity. I’m doing it. I’m where I want to be. It’s beautiful. I’m surrounded. I have no fear. Upward, onward. The trail was broken but with so much snow our snowshoed feet still sunk a little and tossed the unconsolidated snow all about.
Then, agony. I’m not in shape. My heart is beating faster and louder than it should be, my breathing should be more controlled and steady. I am evaluating myself, and I am my harshest critic. My friends seem to still be enjoying every second, they don’t realize this is painful…I’m hoping they don’t look back to check up on me, my face gives me away…
At least that’s what’s happening on the surface. But that’s not all that’s going on. In a deeper, wiser, more tempered place, I am truly ecstatic to be in the snow, be away from the city, be on a mountain that is new to me. It is as if my hiking sends me into several different layers of experience at once, with so many different emotions showing themselves, competing for my mind’s attention. I subconsciously choose to accept the pain, or accept the glory. Or sometimes accept both at once. And this process repeats and repeats.
Even though the trail had been broken out, the steep sections up the Sandwich Mountain Trail are hard work. I have to kick in steps with my snowshoes to get a good grip on either the snow I am packing down or the ice below. I use my arms and I feel like a klutzy rock climber, limbs flailing about. But then I get a good grip, and then another, and then I am on top looking down at the next of us to come up.
We had some good views from Noon Peak, but by Jennings Peak we were in the clouds. I was feeling spent, but exhilarated. We decided to turn around at Jennings Peak, rather than continue on to Sandwich Dome. Maybe the others were indeed as tired as me. We cruised down the Drake’s Brook Trail which felt like an easy walk in the woods in comparison. My lack of sleep from the night before was making the monotony of the trail and terrain lull me into an almost sleepwalking state.
I think I hiked about 6 miles that day and from how I felt it could have been 16. I’m learning about myself—within 30 minutes from the end of just about every hike, all pain is forgotten, but the memories from the day’s thoughts remain. It was a wonderful day out—I needed it. So much time for reflection, something I don’t always find in my day to day life.
I love the mountains, yet they can open me up in ways I am unprepared for and suddenly I feel utterly overwhelmed and exhausted both physically and emotionally. Each type of exhaustion contributes to the other. The mountain environment tunes me in to my inner thoughts and feelings whether I want it or not. With every step I take, I've taken leaps and bounds in thought. Refreshing, but truly tiring, work.
I didn’t claim a real summit that day, but I did claim for myself a real experience: not something pretty and sugar-coated, not something I can say was “just perfect!” but something true. It was a good day to be out.
-katie
My emotions surrounding a hike are fascinating to me…there is so much build-up, anticipation, and excitement, and these feelings only grow stronger during the long drive north. I often feel an extreme happiness—giddiness, almost—and deep gratitude for the experience I’m about to have.
At the trailhead: apprehension. Did I forget something? Will I be strong enough to keep up with the others? Will we get views? My mind goes into overdrive, until I take those first few steps up the trail. Then, peace and serenity. I’m doing it. I’m where I want to be. It’s beautiful. I’m surrounded. I have no fear. Upward, onward. The trail was broken but with so much snow our snowshoed feet still sunk a little and tossed the unconsolidated snow all about.
Then, agony. I’m not in shape. My heart is beating faster and louder than it should be, my breathing should be more controlled and steady. I am evaluating myself, and I am my harshest critic. My friends seem to still be enjoying every second, they don’t realize this is painful…I’m hoping they don’t look back to check up on me, my face gives me away…
At least that’s what’s happening on the surface. But that’s not all that’s going on. In a deeper, wiser, more tempered place, I am truly ecstatic to be in the snow, be away from the city, be on a mountain that is new to me. It is as if my hiking sends me into several different layers of experience at once, with so many different emotions showing themselves, competing for my mind’s attention. I subconsciously choose to accept the pain, or accept the glory. Or sometimes accept both at once. And this process repeats and repeats.
Even though the trail had been broken out, the steep sections up the Sandwich Mountain Trail are hard work. I have to kick in steps with my snowshoes to get a good grip on either the snow I am packing down or the ice below. I use my arms and I feel like a klutzy rock climber, limbs flailing about. But then I get a good grip, and then another, and then I am on top looking down at the next of us to come up.
We had some good views from Noon Peak, but by Jennings Peak we were in the clouds. I was feeling spent, but exhilarated. We decided to turn around at Jennings Peak, rather than continue on to Sandwich Dome. Maybe the others were indeed as tired as me. We cruised down the Drake’s Brook Trail which felt like an easy walk in the woods in comparison. My lack of sleep from the night before was making the monotony of the trail and terrain lull me into an almost sleepwalking state.
I think I hiked about 6 miles that day and from how I felt it could have been 16. I’m learning about myself—within 30 minutes from the end of just about every hike, all pain is forgotten, but the memories from the day’s thoughts remain. It was a wonderful day out—I needed it. So much time for reflection, something I don’t always find in my day to day life.
I love the mountains, yet they can open me up in ways I am unprepared for and suddenly I feel utterly overwhelmed and exhausted both physically and emotionally. Each type of exhaustion contributes to the other. The mountain environment tunes me in to my inner thoughts and feelings whether I want it or not. With every step I take, I've taken leaps and bounds in thought. Refreshing, but truly tiring, work.
I didn’t claim a real summit that day, but I did claim for myself a real experience: not something pretty and sugar-coated, not something I can say was “just perfect!” but something true. It was a good day to be out.
-katie
Last edited:
