All of those impossible somedays

“But you’re still learning to walk again,” I said aloud to myself as I gaped at the limestone cliffs blocking any hint of a viable route to the summit. The rock walls loomed over a steep, grassy bench as I emerged from the forest, forming a gray fortress of impossibility.

What was the date I hiked to Cecret Lake in Utah with my sister and niece and nephew? It was July 17, not even three weeks ago. I’d done plenty of walks, even some steeper road walks, but that was my first “real” hike post-knee-surgery. My first time tackling steep singletrack with mud and rocks. I became so dizzy and discombobulated while descending a mere half mile of mildly technical trail that I had to plop down onto my butt to negotiate anything resembling a step-down. I had to do so while Croc-clad teenagers, Draper moms gripping 40-ounce Stanley mugs, and toddlers maneuvered around me. It was sufficiently humiliating that I vowed to stick to biking and PT once I arrived in France. I’d practice recalibrating my proprioception by walking roads, and keep doing those step downs from a stool like in PT.

I knew once I started hiking in the Alps, my appetite would overtake my rational resolve to continue on the proper path of rehabilitation. I knew there was still a long road ahead. I wasn’t “merely” recovering from knee surgery; I was recovering from ten weeks on crutches, which was long enough to rewire how my brain communicates with my limbs. After my mandatory non-weight-bearing period ended on April 27, it took two weeks before I was able to walk without the aid of at least one crutch. Another two weeks before I could ditch the bulky brace that kept my left knee from buckling. I tottered around like a 1-year-old and panic-grasped at bushes or buildings when I encountered even a hint of uneven ground, such as grass. By June, I’d accepted the general wisdom that most people recovering from a meniscus root repair need at least a year to return to baseline. And that’s if they do the work and avoid major mistakes.

Now, I was standing at the base of a band of cliffs high in the French Aravis and pondering whether I could manage a “light scramble.” My mountain appetite was out of control. I’d gotten greedy. So greedy. Two tough climbs of five miles with 2,300 feet of climbing on July 26 and 29 became 8.5 miles with 3,000 feet of climbing on August 1, which became 9.5 miles with 3,000 feet of climbing on August 3. And because I’ve had the time, in between all of that, there has been a glut of bike rides — mostly on my new eBike, which can be as physically demanding as my manual bike but lets me go three times as far.

I’ll certainly write about the eBike soon, but this post is about my first love, my true love. Hiking. The best way to access remote places in these intimidating mountains. The way to float along in flow state for hours at a time, lost in awe. I became a runner because I wanted to hike farther. I saw what my trail-running friends could do in the mountains. I learned to love running for its own sake, but I’m still not sure I need it. I can take my time with an eventual return to running. Hiking, though. Hiking was bound to suck me in without a fight. Now, it’s been what … not even two weeks since we arrived in France? And I was already targeting the popular local summit, Croisse Baulet, looming at 2,236 meters (7,335 feet) above the Vallée de l'Arve. The route from my doorstep requires 4,300 feet of ascent. And apparently I’d chosen one of the more technical approaches.

The vertigo I struggled with in Colorado and Utah didn’t seem to follow me to France. I don’t know why. Did my proprioception switch finally flip? Magical European air? Is it simply the power of positive thinking? I don’t know, but I promised myself I wouldn’t push myself too far too soon. Then again, I could see a trail on the map. There must be some sort of way through those cliffs. And I’d never know if I didn’t at least try. I could always turn around.

The steep, grassy bench became a maze through tangles of brush, which released me onto rock terraces. I traced out not-totally-obvious switchbacks between rock and scree. The step-ups weren’t quite scrambling, but they weren’t trivial, and would be downright terrifying to undo if my vertigo kicked in. Still, I knew the story about learning to walk and being broken wouldn’t serve me here, and it was surprisingly easy to set those thoughts aside. I became a simple animal, moving up the slope, observing the patterns on the ground, and otherwise not engaging with any other passing thought.

As I neared the ridge and the gradient eased, I began to reflect. I remembered walking around Valmont Park for the first time without my crutches, after my mean PT yelled at me for doing everything badly, and my legs ached, and my knee felt like it was barely held together by rusty staples, and I became exhausted, and it took me 43 minutes to walk a mile. And that day — I looked it up later — was May 7. But I knew it had only been about three months since my walking journey began. Three months! And now I am climbing a mountain. A whole damn mountain!

It has been a while since I felt powerful in my body. I spent most of the spring believing I’d never feel this way again. As I crested the ridge and continued up the trail toward Croisse Baulet, the contrast of where I am now compared to May 7 left me feeling powerful beyond measure. I blazed past more than a dozen hikers ascending the main path to the summit. I focused on my glutes, hamstrings, and calves, flexing and stretching and propelling me forward. After weeks of disuse, they’d effectively shut down in May, but now they were strong again. My arms, somewhat neglected now that they’re not my primary limbs for propulsion, kept a confident grip on my trekking poles.

A couple, nervous about the “nuages ​​sombres” (dark clouds) over the next ridgeline, decided to turn around early. I thought about doing the same — it’s not like I can run from lightning, and I had just witnessed how bibically it can rain during a thunderstorm from the safety of my balcony yesterday. But I was in that strange headspace where everything is beautiful and nothing is scary, so I continued marching confidently toward the summit. (I was also placing a lot of confidence in the meteoblue forecast that did not call for storms today, and ultimately there were none.)

I did rush around the summit, snacking as I walked between points and only stopping to swap my now-empty water bladder (good thing I had anticipated my greed on this hot, humid day and brought two.) I was a little afraid of those nuages ​​sombres. I also understood that the second half would be the crux — another 5.5 miles with 4,300 feet of descent would put any knee to the test, let alone one held together by staples. But I leaned on my story of strength. I told my quads that they were powerful; they could carry our knee through this. Then, to avoid letting any little twinge in my knee take over the narrative, I turned on my little iPod Shuffle.

I’m convinced that every year I’m really going through something, Modest Mouse comes out with another otherwise infrequent new album to help soothe me. It happened during my volatile first year in college with “The Lonesome Crowded West,” which I devoured after discovering the band through “This is a Long Drive for Someone With Nothing to Think About” during my senior year in high school. They’ve been there for all of my major life upheavals across three decades, the last of which was “The Golden Casket,” released nine days after my dad died in 2021. So I’m not surprised they came through for me in 2026 with “An Eraser and a Maze,” which has elements of their early work with erratic lyrics and dissonant instrumentals, but moving more toward their recent and middle-age-appropriate themes of mortality, legacy, and grief. Anyway, probably the closest thing to divine intervention that I believe in is the artistic output of Isaac Brock.

Although this hike demanded more than double what I could barely manage three weeks ago, my legs felt surprisingly strong and fresh as I skittered downhill, marching to fresh beats that echo remnants of every difficult thing I’ve survived since I was 18 years old. Toward the end, I did a few repeats of the catchy “Impossible Somedays.”

Oh, it’s not enough just being here or just simply being alive
Although nothing stays the same the whole time
Well, everything’s impossible if you don’t even try to try
Although no one stays the same the whole time
All of those impossible somedays.

….

I'm just fine, but I can be impossible some days
I'm just fine, but I can be impossible some days
I can be impossible some days
I can be impossible most days.

Will I regret this adventure tomorrow, chide myself for my mountain greed that even a major injury didn’t seem to cure? Somehow, I doubt it. Until then, I’ll leave you with a video of the biblical rains of the French Alps, which I am so grateful for after 10 days of record-breaking heat that also felt like it was never going to end.

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