A Stupid Little Walk For My Stupid Mental Health

I have a history of going outside to improve my mental health and hating it. But after a recent trip, that's all changed.

Oct 14, 2024

In my family, nothing is worth doing if you can’t do it quickly. It’s full speed ahead at all times. Head down. No stopping. Patience? Don’t know her. Moderation? Don’t want her.

Which is how I grew to loath hiking. The hike wasn’t about the scenery, the journey to the destination. It was about getting to the destination as quickly as humanly possible. And, very importantly, faster than anyone else on the trail. Couldn’t stop or someone might pass us. Couldn’t look around or you might lose your footing and bust an ankle. And when you’re a short little girl with short little legs, that feels quite similar to a death march.

Remember how the Nazis marched their victims to the death camps and if you stopped or lagged behind, they shot you? Yeah, it’s not that bad.

Photo quality brought to you by the ‘90s

My parents were the type who wouldn’t even stop at a gas station to let you pee on a road trip. They were the type who would begrudgingly, and only after asking you six times if you could hold it, pull over to the side of the road and make you squat in a bush. You know, as a character-building exercise. Ever met those people who won’t use a port-a-potty? These people have never wiggled around in the backseat of an Astro Van for an hour before being benevolently allowed to squat on the side of a major highway to pee. And it shows.

This was like our hikes. There weren’t fun breaks where we had a snack and a juice box and sang trail songs. We weren’t walking slowly, able to look around and take a deep breath to enjoy nature. Rather, it went something like this:

[loud breathing] “Can we stop? I’m thirsty.”

“Absolutely not you little brat. Keep up.” [parent, without looking back]

“But I’m tired.” [pleading]

“Stop complaining or I’ll feed you to the bears!” [loudly]

Remember how that plane crashed in the Andes Mountains and they had to eat each other to stay alive? Yeah, it’s not that bad.

Okay that’s an exaggeration, but you get the picture.

I hated these outings. Whenever a hike was announced, I knew I was in for a bad time. One summer afternoon, I was sitting in my Oak Street bedroom playing with my My Little Ponies and minding my own fucking business, when my Mom popped her head in to tell me that tomorrow, Sunday, we were going to hike up to Hidden Lake.

I immediately panicked. I didn’t want to go. Why would I subject myself to mosquitoes and exercise when I could play in my air-conditioned house from a seated position? Desperate to make this obvious form of child abuse stop, I did what anyone sane human do in my position: I decided to make them pay.

Hidden Lake is tucked into the forest above the West shore of Lake Wenatchee. It’s as if someone took a giant shovel and scooped out the Earth and deposited water in its place. The lake laps right at the edges of the forest so that you don’t know you’re anywhere near it until you’re at its banks.

I know this lake well because we hiked to it every year during my one-week stay at Camp Zanika. I’d done the hike a handful of times before my parents took Ian and I up the many switchbacks for a day hike on that fateful afternoon. Without complaint, I might add.

Unlike the fun and slow walks that we did at Camp, the Wehmeyer Death March was on, and thus, I put my plan into motion. I howled. I screamed. I cried. I LAYED DOWN. I declared that I wasn’t going to take another step until I had a snack. No. I wasn’t going to take another step, period. I played the part of the petulant child as if it was the role I was born to play. And I fucking nailed it. Real tears, even. Move over Haley Joel Osment!

I remember thinking, if I make it miserable for them, they’ll never make me hike again. And just like all things that I set my mind to, I wasn’t going to quit until I’d won.

I don’t remember what my Mom said to me or how she reacted, but I remember my Dad pretty vividly. Scotty is like me: sarcastic, outspoken, hates disobedience (unless it’s him who is being disobedient which is a frequent occurrence). Most of the time, my antics were met with a swift and firm talkings-to that scared me into submission. But this time, for some reason, Scotty didn’t have the strength to fight with me. I remember his head hanging and his apologies to the hikers who passed my performance, stepping over my little body as it sat or laid in the middle of the trail. My wails drowned out the delightful, subtle sounds of the forest. That day, my Dad resigned himself to his fate as the father who couldn’t control his kid. A girl, no less. The shame.

Remember those guys who froze to death on Dyatlov Pass after losing their minds and stripping off all of their clothes in the middle of an artic storm? Yeah, it’s not that bad.

It was the last hike we ever took as a family. I was probably 8 or 9 years old and already ruining things for everyone. And once you get a taste of power like that, you never look back. It was an intoxicating victory.

Ian and I on a hike where I am much older than 8, proving that we did, in fact, continue hiking as a family

But I had my boundaries. I had no problem ruining the outdoors for my family (they undoubtedly deserved it), but when friends invited me to go backpacking after high school and I had said yes without knowing what all it entailed, I held my tongue. Did the climb suck? Duh. Were my legs on fire and I didn’t want to admit how much pain I was in for fear of seeming weak? Quite literally.

Remember that Thai soccer team that got stuck in underground, flooded caves and it took rescuers weeks to get to them? Yeah, it’s not that bad.

Once we got to the top, I discovered that the sense of accomplishment gained by the climb was worth all of the damnable marching. I liked being in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by that stretchy silence that you can only get in the wilderness. I liked seeing a part of the world that not many people would ever see. I liked having nothing to do. I also discovered that the peace of the wilderness calmed by anxious mind and gave me the space to slow down. The outside helped my mental health. What a wild concept.

I will say that I do believe in karma and it came for me in 2017 when Devon, Michelle and I went out to Spider Meadows to watch the eclipse with our dogs. Stella loved to go for walks as long as it didn’t include a leash. Strap a leash on that girl and she sat down, as stubborn as her mom, and wouldn’t move an inch. So it shouldn’t have shocked me when I put her pack on her and she flipped out and then threw a fit. Her mother’s daughter. She whined and whipped her body in circles, trying to get it off.

Michelle and Devon assured me that the pack was on correctly and that she’d follow us if we just started walking. About a half mile later, she came sprinting up the trail and bulled me over, clipping my legs with her pack. She proceeded to do this periodically throughout the hike. Very much on purpose.

And again, that sense of accomplishment outweighed the heavy pack and anti-climatic eclipse. There was something magical about filtering ice cold water from the stream and cooking up a huge pot of mac n’ cheese after a long, hard hike.

Which is why, on New Year’s Eve 2023/24, I cut out pictures of hiking boots and red-rock cliffs and glued them onto my vision board. My manifestation of 2024 included putting one foot in front of the other and death marching myself through the great outdoors.

And it wasn’t more than two days after I put this vision board together that I saw photos on Instagram of blue-green waterfalls, flowing over red rocks to a green valley below. It didn’t even look real. I figured that it was probably somewhere far away, like Peru or Lebanon.

It was Arizona. The Havasupai Indian Reservation, about three hours North of Phoenix. I had never heard of the place but it’s the most sought-after hike in the United States and you have to apply for a permit. I quickly calendared the application date, put in for six people (thinking I could dupe friends into going with me) and waited. About a month later, I got the email telling me that I’d been selected for October 7-10, 2024. I lucked out.

We just got back from this trip. Devon, Andrew, Erin, Coby and I spent our allotted four days walking through the desert (about 45 total miles), swimming in waterfalls, jumping off cliffs, and enjoying the rejuvenating power of the outdoors.

My entire heel was (is) one huge blister, but I didn’t complain. The 11-mile uphill trail back to the car felt like it took forever, but I didn’t scream. My pack dug into my shoulders, but I didn’t put it down. I managed to spend four days death marching my friends through some of the most beautiful views in the world and I didn’t ruin it for anyone.

Remember that guy who got his hand stuck in a slot canyon and he had to saw it off in order to live? Yeah, it’s not that bad.

I’m not sure how this post turned into an inspirational story of perseverance (being inspirational is my cross to bear, I guess), but truly. The harder you work for something, the sweeter it tastes. Just like my trip to Hidden Lake. I worked hard to make that trip so fucking awful that I would never have to be taken on a hike against my will ever again. So I guess the moral of the story is this: get outside and scream. You’ll feel better.

Stay difficult and remember to question authority.