Hiking Through Grief

            When men grieve, they often need to do something physical to help them along. Some men build things with their hands. I go hiking. My goal each day was to reach a scenic viewpoint, but more importantly I wanted to find a place along the way where I connected to something solid and real.

            In the months after my wife’s death, home was an unending flurry of details, doubts and despair, and I was unable to focus on anything for very long. Buddhism calls this “monkey mind,” when hundreds of thoughts are screeching, chattering, and jumping around, wanting my attention.

            When I’m alone on a backcountry trail, my mind quiets. Hiking where bears and mountain lions live keeps my senses focused on the present. I don’t want to be thinking about what happened last month and miss the slight movement in the bushes. 

            As the hours drag on of putting one foot in front of the other, I begin to remember who I am. The rhythm of hiking moves me out of the labyrinth of thoughts and into the wisdom of the body. My mind clears, my battered heart shows up, and my spirits rise.

            I remember what is important and begin working my way through what has happened. I make the necessary adjustments to my life. Nature puts my grief in perspective and reminds me that I am part of something much greater than my own life.

            Hiking is a walking meditation.

            While I relish the scenic viewpoints because they take my breath away, it’s the long hours on the trail climbing up a mountain, and hiking through thick forests, that prepare me to have those ah-hah moments. 

            In the wilderness areas of Yosemite, in the Beartooth Mountains of Montana, in the Tetons of Wyoming, and along the ocean coast of Maine, I can stop on any trail, look around, and see a view, an animal, or a natural formation that leaves me amazed. This is why I go hiking. Grief becomes so encompassing, so intense, that it winds me into a tight ball. As I listen to nature, my closed life opens again. 

            When I linger on the 4 Mile Trail to Glacier Point, I notice the details of its environment — the wildflowers, chipmunks and birds that live here, how steep the valley wall is, and I marvel that tall trees are able to find enough roots to grow here, although now and then, one goes tumbling head over heels into the canyon. 

            The wilderness is not just a place of astounding and subtle beauty. It’s also a place where its creatures struggle against death. I notice the carcass of a squirrel, a pile of blue feathers, and a habitat that once supported an entire community of wildlife that was destroyed by a forest fire.

            What I learn about grief by hiking I share with others. They talk about their own adventures, and our grief becomes real to each other. We hear the details and come to understand the power and grace in our struggles. 

            I want to be open to this moment, to everything it is. I want to laugh with people when they are happy, and cry when their voices choke up in sorrow. When I notice wonders along the side of the trail, I want to linger and explore their mystery.

            Grief is not a problem to be solved. It’s a journey we take together.