Every once in a while the direction forward seems particularly clear: I just happen to have some obstacles in the way.
I started this blog when I left the Red Cross. It was to help me write a book, originally, but mostly it was keeping me honest. I’m going to use it for those same purposes, but it’s going to be about moving in a new direction.
When I was young, being outside was fabulous — I could walk or bike for miles, even across borders, and occasionally I could grab people with me. I would explore sugar shacks that were empty for the season, old cabins built in the woods by those running alcohol across the Canadian border in the 1930s, finding bear traps, abandoned cars and squatters. I learned to find my way by noting moss on a tree, how empty my stomach was and where the sun lay in the sky.
I got away from all of that. I was rewarded for working hard, so I worked, inside. I grew into my grandmother’s body and soon enough, finding clothes for cross-country skiing or rock climbing was impossible. And being a woman alone on a trail can be terrifying when a pack of men catch up with you on the path.
Now that I have sons big enough to get outside with me, who want me outside with them, I’m learning how to get back outside just for me. What I write about here is that process — how you find gear for a short, fat body that’s pushing 50, how you afford to camp on a shoestring budget, how to get these stiffened joints to move in the outdoors again, and perhaps something I’ve no figured out yet.
I love moving. This should be fun.