So Good I Had to Stop
A story about savoring joy on the side of a volcano - and other places, too.
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I jammed the edges of my skis into the snow and ignited my quads to brake my body and come to a sudden halt in the middle of my 4,000-foot ski descent.
My abrupt stop was driven by a very urgent matter – because the moment was so good, I just had to savor it for a little bit longer.
We were climbing and skiing Mount McLoughlin, a Cascade volcano in southern Oregon, that’s surrounded by sapphire lakes and endless layers of snow-smothered mountains. Saturday was our first big summit of the ski season and a hopeful sign that we’re nearing one of my very favorite times of the year: volcano season, when the spring days are brimming with sunshine and the snow conditions allow us to climb and ski the biggest and most beautiful mountains in the Pacific Northwest.
When I think of volcano days, I think of: 3am alarms and watching pastel sunrises while climbing high into the sky. I think of snack and sunscreen breaks and cracking summit beers with the best company and the best views. I think of taking some of my most terrifying, exhilarating, challenging, and rewarding steps as I push my limits and power my body to some of the most spectacular slices of earth.
I think of how my love for these special places has deepened during the hours and hours I’ve spent climbing as high as I can up these massive and stunning mountains. Sometimes that’s to the tip-top and sometimes it’s not. Volcano days help me appreciate the gift of just being out there, for every single minute I can get.
Volcano days ignite some of the most exciting joy I’ve known. And Saturday was a delicious taste of that.
Last year, I didn’t really get a volcano season. The start of the pandemic hit around the time when we’d normally be climbing these mountains. But, we didn’t want to travel outside of Eugene. Or take risks that could land us in need of medical help when we were worried about the health care system getting overwhelmed by covid cases. We were trying to reduce both personal travel and risk, which meant not really climbing any big mountains last year. A loss that was not all that big in the relative sense, of course, but a loss is a loss and I think we all need to allow ourselves to feel all of our losses, both big and small.
So, we watched pristine climbing days float by from our balcony in Eugene, feeling sad about the way our sources of joy were inaccessible, and anxious about the state of the world and the health of everyone across the globe.
To get back out on a volcano over the weekend was a gulp of ice-cold lemonade after 365 days in a parched desert.
I let all of that joy wash over me from my perch on that shelf of snow as I stopped and looked out at the horizon. I invited the sun to drench me in the warmest rays. I melted into the alpine breeze that wafted across my bare skin. And just basked in the fun and energy of the climb and ski. I felt peace and hope and gratitude as I sank into my ski boots. And excitement for the brighter days ahead.
Last fall, I had so much dread for the covid winter. For the ways it would be harder to connect when we only see other humans outdoors and the outdoors was going to be much colder and wetter and less hospitable. I feared the darker days and the ways my grief and depression would rage as I hit difficult loss milestones and trudged through the dreariness of winter. I worried about how much longer we would have to endure this stress and how many more losses would devastate our loved ones and people around the world.
We are certainly not in the clear yet. I still feel like I am nowhere near getting the vaccine myself. I still long for days when we can all gather indoors and hug and share airspace again. I can’t wait to travel and see my people who live far away from Oregon. I know we have plenty of cold rain and grey skies and stressful times ahead. I know people are still suffering in monumental ways.
But, I am starting to see more and more glimmers of hope and light and promise through it all.
A growing number of friends are getting shots in their arms. Biden keeps announcing a more aggressive rollout of vaccines and many places are reporting lower case numbers. I am emerging from a long spell of depression, which is such a great relief. And, it is beginning to feel like spring can’t wait to welcome us back. I started running at 6:30pm on Tuesday and made it through 8 miles before needing to flick on my headlamp. And yesterday afternoon, I lounged on my sunny balcony with bare legs and a book and that simple act gave me such immense pleasure.
As I recognize more hope bubbling up, I am also finding that joy is feeling more accessible. And that every ounce of that joy feels especially glorious after all of the darkness of coviding - and everything else we’ve been enduring.
As I started skiing again on Mount McCloughlin, I thought about how I don’t know when I’ll get another one of these volcano days. There is rain and sleet and snow in the forecast for the foreseeable future. It will be dreary again. We are not done with this mess yet. But I know those days are coming. And I see more hope on the horizon than I have in many months. And that alone offers my spirits a hot air balloon ride into a bright blue sky.
As I kept gliding down the mountain, I enjoyed the hell out of every single turn I got out there, with more gratitude than ever before, and with a deeper determination to keep savoring every single little hit of joy that I find.
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