It’s just before 6 a.m., sun waking behind the mountains, early dawn filling the air. The four of us stand at the edge of the dock, toes curled over the edge, clothes tossed in a pile. My breath shallow with anticipation. Cold air tingles across my skin. Someone counts off and with a quick jump we’re in. “Holy f-k” runs on repeat in my head, heart racing. The water is so cold I can’t think beyond those two words running like a mantra. I’m kicking furiously, eager to get to the top. Seems to take an eternity, but in reality was just a few seconds. As I break through the surface, I hear the screams of the other women shrieking loudly into the dawn. I think of the neighbors who live along the lake, amused that they’ve likely awoken to the sounds of our adventure. I’m the first one out, teeth chattering, voice stuck in my throat. Wrapping myself in my towel, I turn to find the others standing near. Giggling and smiling, the weekend comes into sharp focus. Courage, discomfort, joy…this is what I was craving. Upon arriving on Friday, I couldn’t have imagined a frigid, pre-sunrise soak in the lake would manifest it.
Like most of the other 29 women who arrived at Caldera on Friday afternoon, I had a fair amount of anxiety about the weekend. I haven’t been able to run much, will I be able to hang? I’ve only recently begun writing, will I have words? My anticipation and excitement far outweighed any reservations, but I was nervous.
Sunday morning comes, we have a “long run” on the schedule. Courtesy of some recent (and new) health issues, I’ve barely been training. Thankfully we had three distance options – 5, 10 and 14. Even though the 14-miler visited an amazing location, I knew it was out. I hadn’t run double-digits in an exceptionally long time, and am out of practice on very technical trail, which the first four miles promised to be. I decided to go with the five, playing it safe. But a conversation with one of my cabin-mates out on our deck that morning convinced me to bump up to the ten. Worst-case scenario, I walk the last few miles. There’s not much I love more than a long effort on trails, and I was excited to take some photos.
The run passes like a dream. The trail is a bit technical in spots, enough to require attention, but not so much so that it prevents getting into a groove. I run the first few miles with others, and then end up on my own with the stops for photos. The miles pass by comfortably, I keep waiting for the wheels to come off. Made it to five miles, refilled my water bottle and quickly got back on my way. The light is magical on this morning, filtering through the leaves, dancing off the water. I get to seven, then eight miles. My legs are tired, but I know I’m going to run it in. I finally get to the end of the run, and am immediately greeted by Lauren, who gives me a huge smile and hug, and asks how it was. I tell her it was great, but what I don’t have the words for yet, what I’m not able to tell her, is that on this morning I rediscovered joy. It’s been a really, really long time since running felt joyful for me, but on this day, on this trail, I’m reminded why I love this sport. Being in the mountains with these women refills my cup, a cup I didn’t even realize had gone dry.
Baggage dropped, expectations released. These are the fruits of this work. Without an ounce of hyperbole, meeting this group of strangers for a weekend in the mountains restored some of my faith in humanity. Knowing these women are out there, doing their thing, quietly, fiercely, full of lady-swagger, brings me such joy. I met women who inspired me, who helped me walk outside myself, who led with heart and grace (thank you Marianne and Lauren). Women who gave me tools for developing this craft, women who inspired me with their words, with their feet.
Monday morning post-“swim”, we go for a silent run on a different trail. I’ve intentionally left my phone behind (which was in airplane mode most of the weekend and functioned primarily as a camera), intentionally saving my creative energy for the writing that’s to follow. Before turning that part of my brain off for the morning, I make a mental note to come back to the trail before driving to Portland later that afternoon, as I imagined the light would be perfect in a few hours (it was). The river flows swiftly, swollen from winter, the trail snaking along the bank. I feel the energy from the river, from the trees and the mountains. I feel the energy from the other women. Words dancing along with my feet, gratitude for the fatigue in my legs, the words on the page.
Freedom as I dance
Feet flickering
Breath deep and full
Sunlight streaming
Heart racing
Sweat dripping from my hat
Around the next bend
Water rushing
Moss draping
Joy, wild and free
