She reeked of week old sweat and salty ocean air. Clutching her trekking poles, she made her way to the outside café where I had just bought a latte and was about to leave. Before she could reach the window to order, I was there, by her side, like a groupie, waiting to get an autograph.
"Are you a thru-hiker?" I asked.
She stepped back from my enthusiasm and reluctantly nodded. "Yes...I am."
"I knew it!" I laughed. "I just got off the Pacific Crest Trail two weeks ago. My load was too heavy, eighty-pounds to be exact, from carrying too much water." Thanks to the drought. "Of course," I went on. "The weight killed my hip, so here I am."
Me before the hip blow out.
She smiled, took her sunglasses and head buff off, and her short silver hair and severely weathered face appeared announcing she could have been my grandmother. I was stunned. How could an elderly woman be a thru-hiker? To observe her small, muscular stature from afar, she looked younger and more physically fit than me, not a grandma. Now, I was even more in awe and intrigued by this mysterious goddess.
Her backpack slid down her arm and rested on a picnic table next to her trekking poles. "Yeah, that's a lot of weight to carry," she replied and wiped her dirty, sun-beaten forehead. "My pack's at thirty-seven pounds." This meant she was an expert and not a novice like me, but hey, I had a good excuse, I had just come out here from Oklahoma and there were no hiking experts within two states to consult about long distance pack weight.
"I started a month ago back in California," she stated before glancing up at the café. "Where am I?"
"Lincoln City," I said.
Lincoln City, Oregon
"Oh, okay, good," she went on. "Anyway, I'm making my way up one-oh-one, walking and camping on the beach when I can."
From my recent stay in the small costal town and experience walking on the beach every morning, I was bewildered by her hiking on the sand. It was hard enough to walk on the beach without pack weight let alone with it. How could this woman be so strong?
My grandmother spent her final two decades of life sitting at a table, smoking cigarettes and watching her 'stories' on TV all day. She believed society's rules about aging, and her adventures stopped way before I was born. For a longtime, I thought my grandmother's destiny was mine too, and I was really feeling it this year when I turned 44.
As a writer, I spend hours at a computer desk, pecking away at a keyboard and rarely move. There have been times I get so caught up in my work, I forget to eat and around four p.m., I'd realize I hadn't moved or had a meal all day. I could get away with the inactivity when I was younger but after hitting forty, my body couldn't take it anymore.
And this year, I felt old, really old. My body ached and was easily injured. I pulled a shoulder muscle and it took seven months for it to heal. I had physically went downhill. So I took a writing sabbatical to do something for my out-of-shape, aging and severely neglected body, and I chose the hiking trip to: One, cross hiking off my bucket list before I got too old, and two, to feel alive again before my time had run out. My clock was ticking; I could hear it every moment of the day.
But this woman, this amazing woman in that brief five minute conversation changed my views about growing older. She defied the clock. She, in her late years was still taking life by the balls and living. I learned that she had thru-hiked once to twice a year for the last decade, and it was her way of connecting with herself. She had just walked hundreds of miles through California and Oregon and was going on up into Washington and all by herself. Most young, physically fit women wouldn't dare take that journey on. Camping alone in the middle of nowhere and having NO one to call for help can create a vulnerability and fear like no other. My first night, I almost went mad from the noises and panic attacks.
This lady deserved a medal or some kind of award, and most of all, she deserved reverence from all of us younger women. Because whether she knew it or not, she was showing us the way: a new way; a braver, fearless way. She didn't preach to me or say it, but her actions told me: Little sister, go, live. Give up these societal beliefs about growing old, have fun, be free and most of all, follow your bliss.
I wanted to ask her age, her name, why she would choose such a solitary and rigorous experience and tell her of my deep respect for her fearlessness and how I wanted to be just like her. But I didn't. She was tired and exhausted from hiking all day and needed that drink, and I needed to let her be.
Later, when I was sitting on the beach, I saw her again, trekking through the sand, hiking gear and all, clueless that someone was watching her and thinking: Wow, what a badass. I want to be just like her when I grow up. I took a photo of her, my nameless shero, as proof that she does exist and as a reminder that life, no matter the age, is what you make of it.
The woman who changed my view on growing old