Trail of Tears — Why I Torture Myself Every May

Every Sunday for the past few weeks, the New York Times podcast The Daily puts out a human interest piece, to take our minds off the current COVID-19 pandemic. Last week, the story was about a 71 year old Polish man named Aleksander Doba, who has crossed the Atlantic ocean three times. Alone. In a kayak. I couldn’t wait to listen to the story, and after I heard it I sent it to my dad. My dad and I are both adventure lovers. At 81, my dad is going to participate in the senior Olympics this year, as he has done for the past 21 years, ever since he was eligible. When he was kicking my ass on a 5 mile hike last weekend, he was lamenting the fat around his belly.

“I really need to figure out a way to get this fat off my mid-section. I’m going to start doing more crunches.”

I know I’m going to be the exact same way when I’m that age. Body acceptance does not run in my family.

This Saturday, I’m going to go on my annual Geneva Lake hike. This is a 26 mile hike around the hilly terrain of Geneva Lake in Wisconsin. I’ve been doing this every year for the past 10+ years. It started when I was teaching a small private high school English class. My supervisor asked me if I wanted to take the kids around Geneva Lake.

“I’ve always wanted to do that! That would be so much fun!”

It wasn’t.

I was designated to lead the group, and my supervisor would be available to pick kids up in his car if anyone couldn’t make it. Three of the group of eight dropped out about an hour into it. One kid wore $6 faux Keds from Wal-Mart, and his feet were bloody half way into it, although he stuck it out. After about an hour, I was hoping we were half done. It ended up taking about 8 hours, with two of them falling on gravel towards the end, since one of them was carrying his girlfriend on his back. His knees got all scraped up and I felt like a bad chaperone. When we got back to the cabin where we were staying, after scarfing down four slices of pizza, all I could do was lie on the couch, while my supervisor laughed at me. The next day I could barely walk.

After that, for some crazy reason, I do this hike every year. What starts out as a rather pleasant experience always ends up in the last few hours as pure torture. Residents of the area are required to let people walk through their backyards as they circumnavigate the lake. At first, the splendor of Where The Other Half Lives is mesmerizing.

What in the world do these people do? How can they afford to live in these places?

Here’s my youngest son, Christo, in front of Stone Manor, built in 1899 by Otto Young. What was once a single-family home has been converted into six luxury condos.

By the second half of the hike, my low back is aching, my feet are starting to blister, my legs are tired, and I’m completely out of breath. I stop making the effort to turn my head to gawk at the houses. The Mayflies are usually out, swarming in our faces. Sometimes it’s raining, which is still better than the heat. The reward at the end, of a veggie burger and a beer at our favorite Fontana bar, is what keeps me going. This year, there will be no reward at the end unless I bring my own supplies. But I’m doing the hike anyway. I told Charlie I was going and he looked at me.

“You’re doing it again? Isn’t it always a miserable experience?”

Pretty much. And this year, without Christo to keep me company, it will probably be even worse. But not doing it is, oddly, a more terrifying thought.

Why do I put myself through this every year?

I’m trying to figure out the reasons.

The physical hardship that Doba endured in his kayak is described in great detail in the podcast. He suffered heatstroke, dehydration, a full body rash, being battered with flying fish, conjunctivitis, a lack of fresh food, sleeping in a coffin-like space under the kayak deck, and being tossed about like a cork in the swells. I savored every detail. If I could only read one type of story for the rest of my life it would be adventure travel stories of extreme physical hardship. I am endlessly fascinated by people who put themselves through physical torture by choice. Years ago I was obsessed with reading stories about Everest climbs and contemplated doing it myself, until I realized that frigid temperatures, oxygen deprivation, extreme nausea, and possible death just weren’t worth it. I then decided that I wanted to hike Kilimanjaro, for which no crampons or spikes or ropes are needed. After reading many accounts of people gagging and puking their way up to the top, I’ve decided that I don’t think it’s for me either. As I’ve gotten older my bucket list of adventures has begun to shrink, and it’s disappointing, but I have to be realistic. Could I really hike the Pacific Crest Trail, carrying a 50 pound backpack? Even my water hydration backpack, which weighs about three pounds, is enough to make my back start aching after an hour. Coupled with the heat, I know I would be absolutely miserable the entire time. So, the Geneva Lake hike has become my version of Mount Everest. Here are some of my notes from years past:

General advice: The earlier in the day you can start, the better. Pick a date when it’s not going to be 80 or above. Go earlier in May, like a week or two before Memorial Day so that you can smell all the flowers on the trees. Take your hydration backpack with 2 1/2 bottles of Smart Water. Bring sandwiches and trail mix, and have a beer and a grilled cheese at Chuck’s as your reward. Made it in six hours and 55 minutes. Remember to take off all rings first, since you will have sausage fingers when you’re done. Oh, and don’t wear a front-zip bra, unless you want more scars.

2014: Went with Sarah and Christo. Painted new skin on my blister area and tied my gel Kytanos really tight: did not get blisters!!! Bring flip-flops to change into when you get back to the car. May need a light jacket for later.

2015: Do NOT wear trail shoes. Stick with the Gel Kytanos. Made it in 6.5 hours with Sarah and Christo 15 minutes ahead. Much better if cool and rainy. Don’t go if over 80! Terrible! My feet got blisters on the bottoms with some shitty trail shoes and rocks kept getting down in my socks the entire time. Wear tall socks if you must. Get the gels! Had blisters for a week. Wear socks that are tight on top. Threw out trail shoes

2019: Went on May 11th: easiest time ever. Went counter-clockwise and seemed more fun because it was wooded towards the end. Low 50’s. Hardly any bugs. Filled backpack but only drank half. Since it was chilly not a lot of people out. Charlie did half and then Jack met him in Lake Geneva. Christo and I finished in 7 hours. Hands were cold, and wore a long sleeved T-shirt over a short-sleeved one. Could have worn a thin jacket, and running gloves. Hard to snack with frozen hands. Had on Capri workout pants and they were fine. Had extra socks but didn’t wear them. Threw out shoes afterwards.

Over the years, I’ve had various family members and friends accompany me on this hike, but this year I knew that I was going to have to do it alone. My youngest son, Christo, expressed his dismay that he couldn’t join me, being stuck in Minneapolis, but Charlie showed me a text from him:

Isn’t mom going to make you come with her?

😞

We always start in Fontana, Wisconsin. For the past few years, Charlie and Jack, my oldest, have gone half way around, to Lake Geneva, then called an Uber to take them back to the starting point, so they could wait for us at Chuck’s, a loud, crowded bar, where there is no table service, but excellent veggie burgers and cold drafts of beer. I dream about it the entire hike. This year, the bar was only doing curbside, and it was too cold for Charlie to sit and wait outside. I was on my own.

I set my alarm for 5:15, but woke up at 4:30, and was too nervous and excited to go back to sleep, so I got up and left the house by 5. Driving to Wisconsin felt like a huge adventure, since I hadn’t been anywhere for two months.

As I’m driving up there, I notice the temperature: 26 degrees.

Shit, that’s cold.

I had on thin leggings, a T-shirt and a light fleece jacket. When I got there and was feeding the meter, the wind cut right through my coat. I knew I had to get moving quickly.

I donned my hydration backpack and started off. It was quiet and peaceful, too early for hikers or boats. All I could hear were the birds.

I had forgotten to take my pre-emptive Advil, so I got some out and tried to get water from the backpack hose. It was jammed, probably because I don’t clean it well. Of course I didn’t think to check it before I left. I had to stop, take the whole backpack off, and unscrew the cap to drink right from the filler hole.

Dammit.

I knew I wasn’t going to want to keep stopping to take a drink. Luckily it was cold, so I didn’t feel thirsty, although I knew I was going to have to make myself drink every so often. A 26-mile hike without water is a bad idea, no matter the temperature.

My low back and hips started hurting about two hours into it, but I was enjoying myself: no people, birds singing, the sun on my face and the wind at my back. I was moving right along, stopping to pee in the woods, hoping no runners would come by. Twice, I went too far and missed the entry back onto the trail, something that usually doesn’t happen when I’m with others. I got lost in a neighborhood, and noticed an older guy getting into his car. As he backed out and started driving past me, I flagged him down.

“Good Morning! Am I going the right way for the Shore Path?”

“No. You missed the entry and went too far,”

“Oh! Thanks so much! I usually go the other direction, and got confused,”

“You must have been dreaming. Have a good day.”

I ignored his slightly condescending comment, happy not to have strayed too far off the path.

I had brought some “Decadent Chocolate” trail mix, but it’s hard to eat while walking, so I ate a Kind bar and anticipated my peanut and butter and honey sandwich that I would eat at the halfway point. One of the main reasons I do this hike is so that I can pig out the rest of the day on fries, pizza, ice cream, and booze, something I never allow myself to do when I’m not walking 46,000 steps. On the weekends, I’ll have one or two treats, but I never let myself eat whatever I want.

Last year I lost 15 pounds with the Noom app, and even though I’m just trying to maintain, I still log my meals and weigh myself every day. Logging has now become a crutch, and if I don’t do it, I gain weight.

I wish I didn’t equate my weight with my worth. I look back at pictures of myself from when my kids were young: I’m 10–15 pounds heavier, and I dressed like a slob. Yet, oddly enough, Charlie was still attracted to me. I think it’s partially from boredom that I am so strict now. When I didn’t have time to obsess, it didn’t matter so much, although I always felt guilty when eating “bad” foods.

Body obsession and fear of aging are embarrassing to admit. I want to be recognized as a “bad-ass.” Whenever I encountered other hikers on the trail, I wanted to say “Hey! Are you going ALL the way around? ’Cause I am! Yeah! Look at me! It’s super long and I’m doing it! I’m almost 56! Ha ha!!!”

But of course I didn’t. I just said good morning and kept going, thank god. But the whole time I was envisioning the Instagram post of my end-of-trail selfie.

Should I hashtag “#badassmoms” or #badassmothers”? Does the second one sound too much like a curse word?

The second half of the hike, while much, much better in the cool weather, started to become uncomfortable. My feet had been OK, despite the shitty, three-year-old T.J.Maxx running shoes I had on. I was trying to get one more wear out of them before tossing them. But all of the sudden my right foot started to ache with a burning pain. At one point, I worried about having to bail. I tried using some meditation techniques to help the pain fade, and eventually it worked. But then my toes started to hurt. Bad. I just kept going, envisioning me not simply throwing the horrible shoes in the trash, but slamming them in, creating a loud crash, dust rising up.

There’s a voice in my head that says When I can’t do this anymore, I am officially old. I don’t want to get old. I don’t want to get fat. I’m a coward.

When I got home, Charlie had grocery store sushi waiting for me, as requested. I ate it, had some trail mix, a shower and a short nap. When I woke up, we ordered deep dish pizza, and I ate two pieces and had an Aperol Spritz, as we sat on our deck enjoying music.

The alcohol released the Sugar Monster, and Charlie offered to go get me a sundae. Even though it was Mother’s Day weekend, I didn’t want him to have to make another trip, so I dug through the freezer and found a six month old ice cream sandwich and smothered it in Hershey’s syrup and mixed nuts. Later, watching T.V., I had some black jelly beans. Then the guilt settled in, knowing I had passed the point of calories in/calories out. Mission complete. I weighed myself the next morning, and saw that I had gained the usual two pounds. I made a promise to eat healthy food the rest of the week.

Later, I started cleaning my hydration backpack, trying to figure out where the clog was. I pulled on the mouthpiece, and it unlocked, releasing the air flow.

“What a dumbass!”

Charlie heard me.

“Lisa! You just made a mistake. You’re not a dumbass.”

Maybe someday I’ll believe him.