The Test — The Wee Wanderer

This is the story of how a woman with both a job and a 3-year-old managed to go for a hike by herself during a pandemic. It is more comedy than tragedy. You’re welcome.

(*Disclaimer: My cell phone died during the hike I am describing so there are no pictures to accompany this story. This, I know, is the death knell for any blog post, so I wrote this with my most loyal readers in mind. (Hi Mom!) I threw in a few old photos of this same trail at the end of the post as a reward for any agile reader who perseveres.)

Here goes:

This past Monday, the stars aligned in a way they haven’t in a really long time. At 9:30 in the morning, after working for an hour, I was done for the day, and free until 4. (Don’t stop reading! I swear this is a true story.) There are plenty of ways I could have spent the day by myself: chores, housework, gardening, descending a COVID-news rabbit hole while binge-eating Cheddar Bunnies, what have you. But instead, I decided to go for a hike.

Some backstory: Old Sarah was an avid solo hiker. She covered hundreds of miles hiking and running trails by herself. One time, she camped alone in a prime trail-running location so she could run trails all morning and read all afternoon for two days without interruption. That was the life. But I digress. . . New Sarah – me – is still hitting the trails with her hardy little hiking bud in tow, but she’s only gone on a handful of kid-free hikes in the past 3 years, and not a single one by herself.

Back to Monday: Several challenges immediately presented themselves:

First, my daypack is now devoted to a 3-year-old’s outdoor adventure needs. Fold-up potty, spare clothes, tiny sunglasses: Check, check, check. I wanted to keep this perfect specimen of preparedness intact, so I wasted precious trail time fumbling around the garage, and dusted off an old trail running pack I’d forgotten about.

Second, I didn’t really know what was open at this point due to COVID closures. The trail I had in mind – The Ira Spring Trail to Mason Lake – is on National Forest land, but I couldn’t find a recent update, so, without a true Plan B, I figured I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I really wanted to leave the house.

Third, in my haste and enthusiasm to hit the Open Road, I forgot my wallet. (As an English teacher, I noted the symbolism of heading out alone with no identification. But then I caught myself singing along to the Caspar Babypants CD I’d left on in the car and got distracted by the irony.)

An hour later, I arrived at the trailhead, which – to my delight – was apparently open. But then, this fourth challenge arose: I had somehow forgotten to pack. . . anything. Aside from water and the actual pack, I had nothing. No food, no sunscreen, no hat. This will be incomprehensible to people who know me, as I normally leave the house with enough provisions to survive for weeks. When Levi was born, I was instantly re-programmed to prepare for every possible horrifying scenario before leaving the house. (If Burien is ever hit by a tsunami, mosquito infestation, or volcanic eruption while we are out for a walk, we will be ready.)

And yet, when I had only myself to take care of, I managed to overlook even my most basic needs. I surveyed my surroundings. On the floor was a facemask that I snapped to my pack. Then I found – unbelievably – an expired Clif Bar underneath the passenger seat. (It was expired, but it was also chocolate chip flavor, so I considered it a score.) I’m no Bear Grylls, but nothing else in the car – a few Legos, a Matchbox car, crumbs – seemed likely to be of use. But there was nothing to fear except a little discomfort, and based on the cars in the parking lot, there were enough people on the trail who could help me if I needed anything. Besides, I had my cell phone so I could always call for help.

I put my Discover Pass — also expired — in the window, and was on my way.

Almost immediately, my phone died. At this point, I figured it was par for the course, so I kept going. I really wanted to be out in the sunshine, enjoying the solitude and working up a sweat. But it also occurred to me in the first few minutes of the hike that this was a chance to finish something. I mean, what was stopping me? There would be no 20-minute potty breaks today. I would not feel the need to touch every slug. I would not waste critical energy singing a thousand made-up verses of “Stinky Feet.” For the first time in 3 years, I knew that I could finish what I started.

Maybe the challenges presented to me were all components of some cosmic test. It was very unclear if I was passing or failing, but I knew one thing: I would finish.

Those of you familiar with the Ira Spring Trail know that it climbs uphill at a moderate grade for about 3 sunny miles, and then descends 300 feet to Mason Lake on the other side of a ridge, where the trail enters the shade, and the snow lingers through early summer. Old Sarah would have planned for this, and thrown a pair of cleats in her backpack. New Sarah didn’t even plan for lunch.

But this was my chance! No way I was turning back today. I descended slowly toward the lake. I slipped. I got up. I slipped. I kept going. You guys! This. Was. My. Chance.

I’d probably made it a third of the way through the descent when my boot cracked the snow pack, and I fell maybe a foot through to the rock beneath. This is no big deal, happens all the time in the Spring, and I almost kept going. But I stopped and considered my situation: On the one hand, I had no food. I had no way to call for help if I did fall. I hadn’t told anyone where I was. And I had to be back by 4. On the other hand, Old Sarah could have finished this measly hike before breakfast. It was rated “moderate” in the hiking book for crying out loud! When had I become this person who didn’t finish things? I wanted to finish! I wanted to go to the laaaaaaaake!

Then, there was some silence. Followed by a tummy rumble.

I turned around, following my own footprints through the snow, back to the top of the ridge and the sunshine. I sat down on a rock, dug out my expired Clif Bar, and took a deep breath. I thought about what I would say to Levi after a temper tantrum: What are you feeling? I was frustrated: No matter how irrational it was to feel jealous of Old Me, it was still a thing. I was hungry: Bear Grylls would have brought those Cheddar Bunny crumbs from the car. I was bone tired: Maybe I should have taken a nap instead. But here I was, on top of a sunny ridge, breathing in the fresh air during a pandemic. Maybe this test was really about the turnaround, not the finish.

The hike back to the trailhead was fast and carefree. “Totally doable!” was my response to uphill hikers who asked me about the snow. “I didn’t do it, though!”

When I got to the car, I half expected to find my keys missing or my battery dead. But apparently the cosmic test had ended with the snow. I’m still not sure if I passed or failed, but I had my keys, my car started just fine, and by the time I made it to the freeway entrance, my phone had charged enough for me to take a selfie for posterity: That time I didn’t make it to the lake. Again.

My arch nemesis — Old Sarah — at Mason Lake for the first time. This was the pack I dusted off on Monday.

A couple summers ago, hiking the Ira Spring Trail with my friend Carrie (who took these 4 photos)

Because this is (mostly) a blog about parenting, here is Levi on his way up or down -- it’s all a blur.