Complaining in Nature

Ahhhhhh… communing with nature.

I don’t do that.

I complain in nature.

I have a bad attitude and I don’t care if the birds know it.

Does it stop me from exploring the natural world? It does not.

Does it prevent me from taking hikes well above my physical ability? Nope.

Does it mean I slap a positive attitude on my face anyway and try to make the most out of these trails like some crunchy granola chick living her best life? Also, negative.

In my universe, every autumn right as the temperatures drop, my husband, my daughter, and I tie up our hiking boots and agree to tackle some unknown path as vague quotations wrongly attributed to Shakespeare and Madonna go dancing in my head:

“It’s the journey, not the destination. Hopefully, you have good wine,” –Jesus of Nazareth

The entire car ride leading up to these adventures has me dreaming of what we’ll accomplish as a family. You can almost see the ethereal thought bubble floating above my head as we step out of our grey Traverse family wagon and arrive at the trailhead.

Like two weeks ago, when my husband decided he’d navigate us to a waterfall.

Doesn’t that sound idyllic? Yes, let’s alllllllllllll go on a family outing to a waterfall.

I’m still wiping tears away as I think about that Subaru commercial with the young, deaf boy and his father standing in front of a waterfall. At least they were smart enough to just drive there.

Meanwhile, in suburban hiking hell, I’m trudging up a hill so steep, my burning calf muscles are singeing the leaves behind me when my husband reveals we’ve taken a wrong turn, and we’ll have to locate the real trail.

WHAT THE…?!?! How is this possible?

When we spot a celery green caterpillar so plump and perfect it looks like it’s been crafted for a new film version of Alice and Wonderland, I’m too pooped to care about the natural world. I’m finally in agreement with my daughter who’s been whining to go home for the last 15 minutes.

Fine. She wins.

We’re all miserable.

Let’s get out of these horror movie hills and head home. Screw that lovely lil’ caterpillar and that stupidly serene waterfall. Who needs that shit when you’re about to die of exhaustion on hillbilly hillock?

That is until I spot some other group trudging up the same steep hill we just scaled, and I realize they’re lost, too.

“I think we misjudged the way to the waterfall,” one of the mothers from the group confesses.

In an instant, my grumbly 6-year-old has made fast friends with their 8-year-old and the two girls are investigating the green insect together. I’m thrilled my child has a buddy, which means I have a new life’s purpose:

We must help them!

Suddenly, I take charge.

“My husband can lead us toward the waterfall,” I announce.

This is now an exercise in endurance and community spirit, and I am its leader. I charge to the front of the group, where I start running commentary about every inch of the hills that surround us. I have no idea where we are—I could become a park ranger, though!

But after finding the waterfall, and giving it two Clark Griswold Grand Canyon approving head nods, I’m spent.

Everything hurts.

As we head back, I notice there’s barely a path in front of me. I’m tripping over branches and slipping on pinecones. Not long into our return journey, I fall to the ground not once but twice—my blacked toenail still shows the proof of my hiking sufferance. My red face is soaked in sweat, and I keep wiping the same hair out of my eyes. Breathing like some worn-down dragon who doesn’t know he’s gone extinct, I think if we must hike up anything—again—I’ll be forced to drop to the ground and play dead.

Surely, these hangers-on can find their own way back to the parking lot, right?! I’m too out of shape to navigate a hike while playing nice to new people.

I keep my mouth shut when we all get lost at the top of the next hill and we’re forced to survey our surroundings by identifying which side of the lake we’re on. But I’ve seen this movie—that damn caterpillar was a diversion!—and it doesn’t end well. I’ve realized not only do I have no business leading anyone else in the right direction, but if we don’t figure out where we are in a matter of minutes it’ll be getting dark and I’m certain we’ll be stuck in some splatterfest of a slasher film.

The rest of the group overtakes me, and I don’t even care. Perhaps, I’m too glittery to be a park ranger, anyway.

Next up, the irritated me: Why the hell are we even out here? We don’t know what we’re doing and if I wanted to be this committed to my ass muscles, I could’ve stayed home and done the 1980s Solid Gold 5 Day Workout. It’s on YouTube!   

Eventually, we find the path that leads us straight back to the parking lot. I’m relieved but now I feel like an asshole for not staying upbeat and neighborly throughout the entire hike. I just never envisioned these family adventures complete with searing pain from my buttocks to my thighs.

A week later, we attempt another “less strenuous” hike with a much easier route, but by the end of it there are a few steep climbs, and my thighs are burning once more.

When we hit an open field, I watch my young daughter run through amber waves. Isn’t this the American Dream? I have no idea; I’ve gone blind. I only focus on her for half a second before sweat rolls into my eyes and obscures my view.

“Let’s take the shortcut,” I say exasperated. 

We wander out of the sunny expanse into shaded woods and in a matter of minutes we’re standing in front of the giant Illinois Monument at the Kennesaw National Battlefield Park. Here in north Georgia, Civil War battlefield backgrounds invade every landscape. I’m no war history buff, but I have a moment…

I’m convinced it’s only a matter of time before my husband and daughter disappear, and I’ll be left in these woods alone, transported back in time. Then I’ll be forced to start a wartime romance with a hot-ass Union soldier in an effort to try to get back to my own century. Along with starring in this vision, it’ll also require me to write content for at least seven seasons.

But my Outlander fantasy fades when two 21st-century teenagers come whipping around the rise and almost collide with us. Thank you oh so much for forcing me back to the present moment where I’m aware of every ache and pain. Gen X is not what it used to be.

I continue trudging along the path with my family finally landing in front of the Grave of the Unknown Solider. He was honored with a ceremony on July 1st, 1934, and is entombed here between the Union and Confederate battle lines as a reminder to us all of the great cost of war.

And with his anonymity, I have a new purpose.

I want to weave my stories into the stories of people who’ve been overlooked, brushed off, and ignored throughout history. You know the bohemians, misfits, and outliers. That could mean telling tales of the Southern gothic and the macabre or detailing the life of some old clockmaker still committed to his craft despite living in a digital world.

You may get narratives of the living or the dead. True crime. Notable characters. Ghost stories. Or wicked and wild history. But all these tales will feature real characters I’ve stumbled upon who’ve somehow been lost to history. I might even throw in some stories of strange and forgotten places and spaces, too. Because who doesn’t love a touching travel tale?

I can’t imagine a better way of Running Away From My Problems than focusing on the people who couldn’t escape theirs. To champion the underdogs and amplify overshadowed voices.

So, if you haven’t signed up to follow this Substack, now’s your chance.

Next week, as we all prepare for Halloween, I’ll bring you a promise I made to a ghost and you don’t want to miss that.