A few years ago, like before COVID, maybe 2018? I started running. This was not an activity I’d ever engaged in except maybe track team in 6th grade, and my events were short, jumps and races such as the 100-yard dash and relays, not something even as long as a mile. Sprints are my thing, in general: quick bursts of energy to reach a finish line quickly. But in an effort to pull my middle-aged body into line, I took up the pastime of longer-distance running and for a long while, I slow-jogged the back roads of Arlee. I had a favorite 5-mile loop, a 5.5-mile out-and-back, a 7-mile loop, and an 11-mile loop. Running along these routes felt like pure joy, because Arlee is beautiful and I enjoyed the views and wildlife, even the Brewer’s blackbirds whose aggressive, protective swoops told me where they nested.
All this came to a terrifying halt on June 1, 2019, when a pair of large dogs1 attacked me during my 7-mile loop. I was injured, the dogs were not vaccinated, court proved useless,2 and I have carried a fear of big dogs ever since. In fact a Great Dane romped up to me just a couple of weeks ago out on a trail and I had an involuntary defensive response. I still wake up in the night wondering what might have happened, had I tripped and fallen while backing away from the attacking pair.
I didn’t stop running, but I never ran by that house again. And I cultivated a healthy terror of being alone on a roadway or trail, though I kept at it (with pepper spray in hand). Slowly my determination eroded some of my fear. On June 1, 2020, I decided to solo-hike a 10-mile loop in Missoula to commemorate a year of working toward confidence. I remember returning to my car and feeling tired yet triumphant.
Yesterday I reprised that hike as a way to say, “I’m still here. I can still do this.” It turns out that just because you can do something, does not mean you should do it. This loop has a brutal opening with a 600-foot elevation gain in the first mile, followed by four lovely miles, followed by hiking straight up the back of Mount Sentinel in a grade so steep you have to tread mainly on your toes, and then a descent the same angle but with treacherous loose rocks. Finally, traversing three+ miles across the fire road with zero tree cover made me wish for an induced coma upon return to the car. I’ll never repeat that route.
During the ordeal I thought a lot about my own impulses, why I feel and often capitulate to desires for what’s maybe not that good for me. I can make a list of these things — consuming sugar, shopping, seeking others’ approval, hiking trails that are too difficult, to name a few. But what is the alternative? Surely I wouldn’t want to forego some of the pleasures of life or experiences even if awkward or painful, in exchange for safety and comfort.
It’s possible I need to change my approach, in general. I’ve always had a desire to do all the things, all the time. See “sprint” mentality, paragraph 1. I’ll wake up on a Saturday morning and think, I’m going to clean my house, go for a hike, buy some mulch, repot some plants, prepare a big dinner, and finish my book. Sometimes it all happens, but rarely. More often, I’ll accomplish the single required task (make dinner), nap, and finish my book. And feel a little guilty over the mulch, plants, house, and hike. This is my top-level consciousness speaking - it’s the me that lists the activities and then chastises me for not completing them.
I realized the other day that I’ve also got a second-level consciousness whose voice I cannot actually hear. It mostly just reclines in the background, eating strawberries and observing through snoozy lids. But it pipes up when I wear myself out and tells the loud-voice consciousness to stop making me do shit. “Woman, you are TIRED. You will not do all the things. Take a damn nap.” This level takes over when I go on vacation and allows me to only lie by the pool or lie on the couch. Book or no book. Pool or couch. Those are the only options.
And so to myself I say, cut that route out of your list of possible routes. The elevation gain has proved to overwhelm, your muscles are complaining loudly today, you sunburned your chest. You don’t need that for yourself. Next time (or later today), go listen to some white-crowned sparrows in East Glacier.3 Meander to Two Medicine and look for bears from your car. Eat Mexican food and don’t count the calories. Or don’t leave your motel room. Give yourself a break.
In the misery of the almost five hours on that loop, I did find beauty which muffled some of the pain: fields of lupine, butterflies of all kinds, birds of prairie and pine whose calls followed me all day. I watched a vesper sparrow wrestle a grub; ravens’ chuckles echoed overhead. A Swainson’s thrush loosed his song somewhere in the tallest trees, and my mind floated into the crown of the forest on the kinglet’s warble.
A Great Dane cross and a Great Pyrenees. I know, these are normally sweet, gentle hounds. Not this pair.
You might feel inclined to give me advice about this. Believe me, I tried all the things. The road was a county division road, and Lake County has no law other than a vicious dog law which can, but does not have to, result in a fine. The county nurse tried repeatedly to get the owners to vaccinate their dogs, which they refused to do. The judge scoffed at my request for reimbursement for the days I had to take off work to deal with this (though backpedaled a tad when I showed him the 8 1/2 x 11 color photo of my bloody and very bruised backside).
It’s a work trip that I’m very much looking forward to.
I'm so sorry this happened to you.
Thanks for this Anna, love to read your stories, and appreciate the various perspectives you provide.