Milestones

Milestones

   Magazines do this a lot, as do store fronts and airlines.  In truth, almost all of us do this, set goals to advertise milestones that we reach.  Anniversaries, accomplishments, we seem proud to reach a certain point, be it in years or days or miles or numbers...the addict who hits 100 days clean and sober or the cancer victim beating the odds, the family store in its third generation now hitting 100 years in business, or the couple celebrating their golden anniversary.

   I've done this more than a few times, most recently counting the number of laps while swimming (ironically discovering that the indoor pool I use in winter was 25 yards in length while the outdoor pool was measured in meters requiring me to add extra laps to equal the old distance).  But the time I most vividly recall doing this was on a hike in the area I lived while in Northern California.  Morning after morning, I would arrive before dawn at the trail head, a Thermos of hot chocolate in my pack, and start out on this rather ordinary trail, one of many that bordered the forested water reserve area in Marin County (which was dependent on this water supply since it received no outside water from other reservoirs).  But there was something special here for me, for about 40 minutes in I had discovered a rock alcove high above; and in climbing up to its spot I found that there was a tiny carved out slot, something just large enough to allow me to comfortably wedge my body into position, to face eastward with my cup of cocoa in my hand, and watch the sun rise unobstructed through the foggy clouds covering the delta of the Bay.  Berkeley and the East Bay never looked so beautiful, hidden below in the distance and encapsulated by this moving white blanket, the sun orange at first, but always assuring and always slow in its pace, as if waking up itself..

   This trail gave me many treats, once seeing a beautiful elk on a ridge not 50 feet away, its form surprised in its stance, as if not knowing why something so alien would be out in its world at this hour;  but then it seemed to sense and feel me, judged me as harmless, and returned to its eating and browsing, stopping to pause and stretch, its antlers and body silhouetted in the purple-pink colors of dawn that my eyes could barely register, a moment I'd only seen as a logo on Hartford insurance mailings.  On another occasion, my Thermos now empty, I walked slowly back to my car, the sky now lighting up but well before most coffeepots had finished brewing and showers were done below.  Unbeknownst to me, a golden eagle was capturing the first of the morning thermals.  From the gulley below came a swoosh of a wing so close that it startled me, this bird rising not more than six feet from my head, it's seemingly 8-foot wingspan so close that I felt it's movement of wind moments before I actually saw it pass me by.  But unlike a scared rabbit or scampering snake, I felt wonder and honor, for I knew that I wasn't prey, I wasn't an animal being hunted.  Instead I was an animal being given a gift, a memory, a special moment as if to give me a glimpse and somehow hear another species tell me, "this is how we exist."

   And it was on this trail that my counter and counting began, for I kept hearing that question, have you ever done this or ever hiked that, or ever skied that run or ever been to that place?  And the common answer was usually, oh yes, dozens of times.  And that was me, I wanted one place that I could honestly reply, oh yes, I've hiked that trail dozens of times.  And so I began counting, consciously at first, passing 10 then 12, then 15 times, and before long I realized that reaching a figure like "dozens" was actually quite a bit more than I had imagined (with my early years spent in southern California, I'd been to Disneyland a lot, but in trying to count back, I doubt that it's been dozens of times). 

   Then a funny thing happened.  As I passed my 20th time hiking that trail, I stopped counting.  Almost Zen-like, it "dawned" on me that the numbers didn't matter for I would likely do this hike over and over, again and again, because this was a hike that I loved, a place that I loved, a hike I did alone and had moments preserved for my memories and probably my memories alone, ones difficult to share or explain, but etched in there as if meant to be taken to my grave in order that I would go in peace.  Most likely, we all have those memories and moments, the drug-free person as happy to reach that magical point as the runner marking a personal best.  But for many of us, somewhere along the way, we discover, as I did, that the end point, the end number, doesn't really matter; it's the discovery that you've found something, something that you love.  That might have been something as simple (or as difficult) as finding that you could indeed push yourself to attain what you once thought impossible, that you were the only one patting yourself on the back because you were the only one who knew just how much you had gained and how much you had overcome, how many walls you had knocked down and how many doors you had opened.  You had been given a gift and had found it, as sure as the eagle looking down at me.  These are the moments without words, without description, yet moments filled with meaning. 

   I made my dozens, likely I hiked the trail even more than that, but ironically I've never had the occasion to use that answer, to say, oh yes, dozens of times.  Maybe nobody has asked, or maybe they did and now it didn't matter anymore.  I still think of that special spot, even after moving away from the area, each time cuddling into that slot proving as comforting as the first.  It was a bit like writing this blog, this being my 100th posting...but then, who's counting?