After suffering through one of the coldest and snowiest winters in a long time, I needed to read about something different.
Sometimes going too far is just far enough
Running is a dangerous activity. It’s not that running itself is so dangerous, but being a runner allows you to consider doing things that an ordinary person wouldn’t even think of doing. At least this is how I’m explaining my latest foray into the abyss of my own ignorance. I suppose it was mostly a matter of being naive, but looking back it just seems plain stupid. I’ve always had a passion for the high desert. There’s no explanation for this passion, it just is. Maybe it’s the starkness of terrain or the seeming lifelessness of the landscape that draws me. Maybe it’s knowing that the mystery of the desert is that nearly all of it’s secrets are actually right there in front of you if you know where to look. Whatever it is, on this day I decided to venture alone onto the path of discovery.
The site was the Canyon Trail in the Chihuahuan Desert, a part of the the Bosque del Apache in south-central New Mexico. The brochure promised that this trail would be a window to the natural world and an opportunity for replenishment. It was the replenishment that I needed most. My running, while going well, had gotten lost in the chaos of schedules and airports and long days of traveling. I was in the first week of a 20 week cross-country tour. I needed the replenishment, and I needed it badly.
The trail began by winding through a dry river bed toward the mouth of Solitude Canyon. I stared at the trail and marveled that there were no tracks. No one had traveled this trail anytime lately. No one, no thing. Or so I told myself. I looked up to try to catch a glimpse of a red-tailed hawk or golden eagle, but saw only sky. I searched the canyon for signs of raven or great horned owl nests, but saw only sandstone. And soon it occurred to me. I was alone. Alone, it seems, except for the brown bats, fringed myotis and Mexican free-tailed bats that are common to the area. BATS?!
Following the trail, and the brochure, a ran my hand over the ledges, holes and crevices that shelter lizards, rattlesnakes, and pack rats. Lizards, rattlesnakes, and pack rats. Bad enough, but nothing compared to the possibility of encountering a western diamondback snake which also inhabits the area. The stupidity of a city kid alone in the desert was sinking in. I knew where I was. I knew where I wanted to go. I had NO idea what I was doing.
I tried to remember every scene of every Western movie I had ever seen. I tried to find comfort knowing that I was carrying a Swiss Army knife, which would have been fine if I had wanted to file my nails or uncork a bottle of wine, but it was hard to imagine defending myself with a plastic toothpick! The truth was, I was scared. I was out of my element, out of my comfort zone, out of my world. I could have turned back. I could have given in to the fear of whatever the desert had in store for me. I could have conceded that I had no business wandering around with nothing more than small backpack and a bottle of water. I could turned back. But I didn’t. And that’s what makes running so dangerous. For most of my adult life I was afraid of everything, and everyone.
I was afraid of getting too close to people, too far from what I knew. I worked hard to control the elements of my life and was frightened when the unanticipated occurred. Until I ran. As I runner I learned that control is an illusion. As a runner I learned that the fear outside of me was always overshadowed by the fear inside of me.
As a runner I learned that the unknown, whether that be distance or effort, or course, was to be embraced, not avoided. As I runner I learned to trust my body, my instinct, my self. As a runner, I confronted the canyon, and my fear. Hours later when I returned to my car I was relieved – to be sure – and replenished. In the loneliness of the desert with no one there to turn to, with no one there to credit or blame, with no one there to share the experience, I relearned one of running’s most important lessons. I learned again for the first time that running, for me, is less about motion, and more about movement. I learned again that my feet are the greatest teachers I have ever had.
Waddle on, friends.
