The Forest Heals All Wounds...
… even those it inflicts in the first place.
I’m sure I’m not the first person to have said some version of that quote, but it’s rung true for me in many ways since taking up trail running and hiking–including when I was riding a “trail high” following my first run-venture on the east coast while running in Forest Park in Portland in the summer of 2019. I was trying out the max cushion Hoka Speedgoat running shoes for the first time and proceeded to roll my ankle not once, not twice, but three times in the same run. Then the kicker came- when I was about a mile and a half from the trailhead on my return, I tripped over a teeny root and broke my arm.
I had nightmares about falling for months afterward. I gave away the Hokas to a friend and swore them off forever. Ironically, they ended up saving me (thanks to my parents and Peter Wells for bringing me shoes) in the later stages of the Appalachian Trail when my feet were blistered, swollen, and in desperate need of cushion. All I can say is, if you’re new to trail running and/or trying out what are basically platform running shoes, remember to pick up your toes.
I just remembered a similar incident when stumbling upon the above photo from way way back to 2010. I took part in a three-stage trail race called the Triple Ripple Trail Festival on Orcas Island that included a four mile run around Mountain Lake, a 10K uphill race to the top of Mt. Constitution, and a 30K race around the island. I won the first two races then proceeded to roll my ankle about a mile into the 30K. It hurt, so I stopped and walked back to the start and ended up winning a pair of spray-painted golden crutches as a consolation prize. I dabbled a little bit on trails after that, but was more interested in running fast on roads than risking another injury on the trails, so that was that.
It took me some time to return to trails after that. I ran in Forest Park maybe once a week for long runs, but usually on the gravel/dirt Leif Erikson Road where I could still log quick mile splits. Once some friends and I ran the 30 mile Wildwood Trail in a day for fun. But in general I didn’t like getting dirt between my toes or mud on my legs. I didn’t have a good enough reason to be out there. Being a goal-oriented person, there wasn’t really a shift until I set my heart on thru-hiking the AT. Returning to the trails with a new purpose unexpectedly felt like returning home. It brought me back to the way I felt as a young teen on these youth backpacking expeditions I was lucky enough to go on. As an awkward adolescent it was a rare time that I wasn’t worried about social hierarchy or what I looked like in the mirror, because in the woods there are none. Being in the wild has this way of bringing out who you are to your core without shame.
There have been instances in the outdoors, particularly when I’m by myself that I’ve paused for a few moments to take in the sights and sounds around me, without the sound of my labored breathing getting in the way. I remember a specific time in the desert under a bright blue sky just south of El Paso in Mexico, another time by a lake near my college in Illinois, many times in Forest Park in Portland, on city and country roads all over the world at odd hours while on tour as a musician. This feeling of simultaneously being in tune with my thoughts and the feeling of not being alone. A sense of feeling small and filled with wonder, a reminder that when I compare my lifespan to that of a mountain or an old growth tree or the stars in the sky, my time here on earth is pretty short. In way it helps to sort my priorities and what I really care about, what I am really seeking. The answer is pretty cheesy. Maybe I’ll share it one day.
My “return” to the outdoors, be that a literal meaning alluding to childhood experiences or a more figurative meaning as a human returning to some sort of primal state in nature, has been the catalyst for some pretty big life changes and emotional pain in recent years. As any thru-hiker could relate to, returning home after the simple, task-oriented way of life on trail is always an adjustment. Fitting into society again, taking into account the social hierarchy and expectations that do in fact exist beyond tween years, a survival mechanism we’ve adapted to just as well as putting one foot in front of the other.
One doesn’t need to pick up and go live in the woods for weeks or months at a time to re-center themselves, though if the opportunity presents itself I'd recommend trying it at least once. Sometimes all it takes is a walk around the block, a jog in the park, or the occasional weekend away. Or even simpler yet: taking a pause, being still, and listening to what’s inside.
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