Go see the world

“National parks are the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.”  —Wallace Stegner, 1983

I’ve just finished re-watching America’s Best Idea, the PBS special from 2009. In 1988 I wanted to go see the western National Park and signed up for a trip. Now, I just want to go see all the National Parks; I just want to go see the world. As much as I can. Ken Burns inspired travel.

Following Isabella and My Colorado Adventure, Book Review

Robert Root writes the story of how he followed Isabella Bird’s three-month (Sep-Dec) journey at age 42 through the Front Range of Colorado in 1873. While Bird seeks to understand this place, Root seeks to see what Colorado will mean to him after living most of his life in Michigan. 

He writes about that first view of the Rocky Mountains while driving from the plains; it is impossible to forget. It is a spellbinding moment of beauty and awe – that first glimpse of snow white peaks in the distance. He enters Colorado from the east similar to all migratory Americans, and me too. (17)

I know that view he describes from driving west from Maine in 2004. Like early adventures and explorers Root is lured west by the promise of new beginnings. 

As an outsider, Bird entered each new world with an openness to experience and an intention to record what she encountered. (19) I think this is a similar sentiment for me. I feel like every new trail or new state I move to there is an intention to record it and understand it. 

Bird was labeled high strung along with being an adventurer. In 1873 there were few women adventurers exploring the frontier.  Root writes her health improved while traveling. When home, she “wilted”. Her life was traveling and exploring but she preferred the less traveled parts of the world. She was always looking for the path less traveled, less populated areas. Also, novelty and freedom kept her healthy, Root writes. And this 1873 Colorado  challenged her resourcefulness and curiosity. A place unfettered by duties to her family and society is the world she created for herself. The plains and the makeshift settlements unsettled her but once she reached the canyons and mountains she remarked: 

“the canyon became utterly inaccessible…this was exciting; here was an inner world.” (47)

When she entered Estes Park, she came alive.

 “Mountain fever seized me”, she writes in her journal.

Root writes that she didn’t have much interest in the science of the place; she was interested in the mood it created in her or the circumstances it created for her. (63) I am captivated by her journal writing about the hike to Longs Peak. I just so happen to be reading this section of the book on the plane as I fly from Knoxville to Denver knowing I will see the peak in the distance. I never thought of climbing Longs, even after 10 years of living in Colorado but for some reason, I want to now. Maybe it is the emotion she writes about the trail to the top. I want to experience it the way she does. 

Root writes that Bird worried about writing about beautiful places because you don’t want the masses to find it. Similar to other nature writers, particularly Edward Abbey, she wanted to keep it to herself and unspoiled. 

Root reflects on Bird’s writing and his, and defines memoir and compares it to autobiography “Autobiography is a chronological art, an act of recordkeeping with commentary, not, like memoir, an attempt to revivify a period of the past, make it possible for another person to live the moment too through reading. Autobiography eschews the intimate, the commonplace detail,  the unexceptional private life; memoir embraces them.” (113)

Are you a sticker or a transient? Root answers: “If you stay too long in one place you can no longer  call yourself a transient or a traveler. You’ve become an inhabitant and you spend your time learning how to dwell there, day by day. For most of us, perhaps, this inevitable change is not only expected but anticipated. For Isabella Bird, it was frustrating and unacceptable.” (271)

I’m not a sticker but I’m not transient either – I think, maybe.

Bird came to Colorado on a recommendation of a friend, writes Root. She found more than she expected and didn’t expect to stay longer than she did. She traveled to remote places, places on the edge of the frontier, and avoided settled places. She preferred the wild and less cultivated areas. She went on to other places and wrote books about the other places and never mentioned Colorado again; and she never came back. She wanted to be in motion and test her limits. She retreated from a regulated life of responsibility and obligation and social constraints. 

Root is a nonfiction writer of place who wrote this book after moving to Colorado. He falls in love with the place as he follows Isabella’s travels in the Front Range. 

Like Root, I love to explore new places and find its “distinctive qualities” and learn its natural and cultural histories. “I’ve merely wanted to know where I am…I like who I am when I’m here,” he writes. I can say the same thing about the mountains towns I’ve lived in. I consider my current place, Sevierville a mountain town. 

Root ends his book with a pithy statement about Colorado that rings true to me and my discovery, while living in different places: “I can imagine moving on. I can’t imagine letting go.”

“The mountains are hard to ignore, hard to be complacent about, and yet the sight of them so often startles me, stuns me, as if I’m repeatedly discovering them anew.” (265)

Monologue – there’s no such thing as a life lived happily ever after.

After weeks of lackluster training and so much stress of homeownership, I sit and watch a random show that pops up. It’s the Meredith Grey last day episode. I just love the monologues of this show.

When I moved to Tennessee in July last year, I needed a great show to watch to relax at night to take my mind off the bears around the rental house and steep windy roads that I drove to get away from the rental house. I surely thought I would plunge my car off one of these roads and no one would find me for days. But I digress ..

In July I watched an episode, and Meredith Grey’s monologue hit me like a ton of bricks. I was making so many changes; and at times doubted everything. I posted this on Facebook:

The monologue from July.

Now, here I am, again, trying to relax after stupid homeowner stuff is stressing me out. I watch this random epidode and it hits me. My life is what I made it. And while, I wish I had someone in my life to help me figure out the well, the septic tank (I live in the country, man), how to hang curtains and bathroom hardware, how to landscape a yard that I think is infested with weeds, and how to get weird smells out of carpet when you can’t open the windows because the prior owner puttied them shut (I ordered new windows and with the supply chain problem I’ll get them in 2025).

I’m trying to figure out all this stuff, while training for ultras, taking care of dogs and trying to figure out if I can adopt a third dog, and working hard to do great things at my workplace. Trying to figure all this out is hard stuff. I’m feeling sorry for myself.

Then I hear this from Grey’s Anatomy.
[Isn’t it amazing how words can transform your thoughts?]

I’ve been through broken bones and a broken home. And the death of people I love but I’m still here. 

I never chose the safety of what was known when there was the possibility of more to be discovered. 

I’ve had adventures that most people only dream about. 

And I’ve had loses that I still dream about. 

And if there is one thing I’ve learned in all my adventures, it’s that there’s no such thing as a life lived happily ever after. 

Unless the happily means simply that we’re still alive. That the sun is rising on another day. Because with every sunrise comes the possibility of happiness. And also the possibility of heartache. 

And sometimes it’s all rolled up together. 

I came to understand as a very young child that when the imagination is limitless, life’s possibilities are endless. But I learned that the hard way. 

I learned it through yearning and frustration and ache and longing. And sometimes desperation for a different life from the one I was living. I learned to stretch my imagination and spread my wings. And to allow for all the options life had to offer. Not only the ones I could see with my eyes. I stretched for the ones I could feel with my heart. 

As long as the sun rises on your life, there will be new dragons to slay. 

The end of my story is not any kind of ever after because I’m still alive. I’m still here. 

And the sun still rises on my life. 

The Sun Still Rises On My Life.

Keep training. Keep adopting dogs. Keep doing a great job at work, life and friendship. That is what I’m thinking tonight.

And the hits keep coming

Out for the count.

5 days of no running and laying on the sofa.

Flu symptoms, negative COVID  test

I’m never sick.

Keeping me company on the sofa.

All my cold medicine expired since I haven’t been sick in years. 

I have no energy; just enough to barely walk the dogs. 

I read an entire book yesterday. Running Home by Katie Arnold. It was so good. She writes about her family, being a mom, an ultrarunner and writer. 

One of my favorite lines from the book when she is just about to finish a race: “I was running from the inside, from the certainty that anything is possible if you just keep going.” (pg 222)

And what I remember, and what is clear from her book about running: is that you get in a flow with your running and the world falls away. That is what I want with my running but it doesn’t seem to happen. 

She went on to win Leadville 100 in 2019 – the year I dropped out. 

She wrote an article for the New York Times shortly after winning the race. 

What I remember most about that article. Her ending line:

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/07/09/well/move/leadville-katie-arnold-ultramarathon-training-parenthood.html