It’s been over a year since I first started taking uphill struggling a little more seriously.
In that time I genuinely feel as though my health and wellbeing has improved dramatically, both physically and mentally.
We are often told that there is no better remedy to daily stress than putting some serious distance between yourself and your computer or office and getting out onto the open hills or into a peaceful woodland.
Here’s a snippet of my brain activity during any given moment of my working day:
Why can’t I write anything today? How will I pay this extortionate garage bill? Am I good at my job? WHY DOES MY GODDAMN COMPUTER KEEP FREEZING? This chair is uncomfortable, has my bum got bigger? Why aren’t my tomatoes flowering? Have I overwatered … OH MY GOD THERE’S NO MILK IN THE HOUSE … why is my phone bill £70 this month? How can I cut down my plastic consumption? What can I do to help the planet? Yes, my bum is definitely bigger, wtf is that about? *eats another donut to make self feel better*… and so on…
It’s tiring. But I’ve discovered in the past year that facing a gale-force wind as you struggle up a steep hill, or wading through knee deep water because you’ve lost the path, helps put into perspective the daily cares that build up inside. It even goes a long way to reducing them.
That’s not to say that I’m totally relaxed when I go walking. I’m not. My previous posts attest to the fact that I carry my anxious personality with me everywhere I go. For example, here is me apparently zenning the f*ck out behind Sgwd y Eira waterfall in the Brecon Beacons:
Looks idyllic. Here’s what was going through my head though:
Wow, this waterfall is cool I must enjoy this special moment but also make sure I look nice for the camera. How shall I have my arms? At the side? Why do I photograph so badly? Shall I look at the water or is that too pretentious? Maybe if I move a bit … SH*T, IT’S SLIPPERY THERE … if I fall in I’ll get held under the water and sloshed about like a washing machine and I’ll drown. How long does it take to take a photo? Need to teach Pete to be better at photography. Come on, enjoy the waterfall it really is awesome and very loud. Too loud. Roaring. It’s like that bit in Jurassic Park … OOPS, SLIPPED AGAIN … that’s it, I’ve had enough must get back to the safety of the car. Not looking forward to those stairs back up the gorge and now I need a wee … how do I turn around without falling in? Am I enjoying this experience a normal amount or should I try and lighten up a bit? CRAP, SLIPPED AGAIN. Let’s get the hell out of here.
Yeh. This is my mind. Great when it’s needed but sometimes just need it to shut up.
But it isn’t the same kind of worrying as the stuff I do at home when it’s quiet. On a hike I do what you might (wrongly) call ‘mindful worrying.’ If mindfulness is about being present within your environment and living in the moment then mindful worrying is worrying (briefly) about what is happening at that moment.
We know that exercise is good for the serial worrier and for mental health more generally. I challenge anyone to worry about long term issues (paying bills, health anxieties, social anxiety, work goals) whilst they are gasping for air during a spin class, a 10k run or as they ascend a particularly steep incline on a hike. The body can’t do it. It brings you directly to your present predicament (My legs ache. How much longer can I stand? Am I going to be sick? It’s hot. So hot. Need to stop and take a breather and water … lots of water). And whilst some swear by the euphoria felt after a short, heavy bout of exercise it’s the prolonged physical and mental activity of a strenuous hike that settles my mind best.
Partly, it is those brief moments where the body takes over and says something like ‘drink some water, you idiot’ or ‘stop climbing for a second or I’ll give you an encore of your lunch.’ These types of survival instincts dictated by the physicality of the body are great for perspective (honest). My day job (academic writing) often makes me feel like I’m a brain being carried around in a squashy, human-shaped receptacle that is secondary to it. The more I experience these physically driven moments of apparent peril (no matter how brief) the more relaxed I feel over all. I am not a hiker who walks to think: I am a hiker who walks to stop thinking.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean you shouldn’t think while you walk (that’s not even possible and you need to be aware of where you are going and what is going on around you). What I mean is that hiking is the thing that gets me worrying mindfully and this, in turn, makes my brain and body connect in a far more productive way than when I try to not worry by donning my pyjamas, staring blankly at Netflix and numbing my overworked brain cells with Ben & Jerrys, yet STILL THINKING ABOUT THE THING THAT IS WORRYING ME.
Here’s a case in point. In April we climbed Pen y Fan (the highest peak in South Wales). As you can see from the image above, there was still snow on the ground and as we got higher and higher (and more and more tired) it became increasingly difficult just to walk forward.
There were a lot of other walkers there that day and, as a result, the main path had become an ice rink of compacted snow. Ice rinks and slopes do not go well together, especially if you add morons into the mix too. By morons I mean people who had worn plimsolls that day and one particular family who thought it was hilarious to use a survival bag as a makeshift toboggan, taking out a few climbers like bowling pins as they uncontrollably slid down the icy slope.
With these obstacles and the sheer irritation of sliding backwards every time you took a step up, the walk became a far more mindful one. I don’t think I registered the incredible view at all until I turned around to take the picture above.
For those that don’t know Pen y Fan, the route from the car park takes you to the summit of Corn Du first. In snow, a simple scramble to the top becomes a hair-raising game of ‘will I slip off this icy ledge?’ and knee-deep drifts make the going very tough on already tired legs.
Once you’ve summited Corn Du you then descend to a col (or is it a saddle?) and face another mini climb to the summit of Pen y Fan. Coming off Corn Du to the col was an agonising experience that required a lot of mindful concentration and physical co-ordination. I had no time to think about anything other than the physical task in hand. All the daily stresses of work and life that might wear me down on a normal day paled in significance as I just tried to figure out how to get down safely.
Now, it doesn’t look too bad (this picture was taken coming back down from Pen y Fan, the summit of Corn Du is ahead to the right). But that small descent was iced up and simply walking straight down it was not an option. The majority of people either turned around and went back the way they had come or paired up and held onto one another for balance as they edged slowly down. Unfortunately for me, Pete got tired of how long I was taking and buggered off (slipping and sliding) to the bottom to wait for me. Helpful.
My options were to edge slowly down sideways, digging in the side of my foot with each step to prevent from slipping, or just going for it and sliding down on my bum. This latter option seemed the quickest but it was fraught with the possibility for danger: the first trial of this method resulted in a very speedy slide that took me off to one side of the path where a much steeper drop awaited. I didn’t want to go shooting off the edge of a mountain like a twat so I tried the sideways edging method. Again, the first trial of this ended in my leg skating out from underneath me and sending me into a second terrifying slide towards the edge. So much for that. In the end, I opted for a combination of the two: I sat down and dug my heels into the icy slope to keep me from slipping, then I half-slid, half crab-walked down to the bottom. This proved such an effective method that I noticed other people around me were also employing it. Whilst it was effective at getting me down the slope, it rendered my bum and hands completely numb very quickly and, once I’d reached Pete (who had been eyeing my crab-like approach with utter glee), I stood up and fell over again because it didn’t feel like my legs were attached to my body any more.
Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that we reached the summit in one piece:
The moral of the story (other than wear gloves and thicker trousers if you are going to slide down snow on your backside) is that during the few hours it took us to do the circular walk up to Pen y Fan, I didn’t think about anything else but how best to physically walk. First it was tiredness from the relentless climb that kept my mind occupied. Then we reached the snow and the physical difficulties that came with it. When we’d descended below the snow line there was a different sensation – one of relief, achievement and appreciation. How many times during the day do you stop to appreciate that the ground you are walking on is flat, hard and not icy? Never, I’ll bet.
In a recent conversation with Pete about happiness he said something very insightful (not a rare thing, I might add). He said that he thought happiness, which we know is often fleeting, was to be found in small yet significant contrasts.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Remember when we climbed Pen y Fan?” he continued. “Well, perhaps the happiest moment I can think of in recent memory is when we got back to the car after that walk and sat there briefly to eat a Welsh Cake before we drove home.”
I realised he was right. I had felt utterly happy in those brief minutes too. That tiny sugary treat enjoyed in a seated position in the warmth of the car following our intrepid, cold adventure up the mountain was a moment of pure happiness. It wasn’t much – a modest reward for our icy uphill struggle – but the contrast between the two things coupled with our sense of achievement was a truly happy thing. My brain went quiet. It was tired from the walk as much as my legs were and had gone for a quick, happy siesta. The mindful worrying of the previous hour or so had melted away quickly and had taken all the other stresses with it. There was nothing left but space to enjoy my Welsh Cake and a cup of tea.
Since then I have tried to appreciate such moments more and even to try to replicate them in everyday life. And I don’t just mean the positive moments – that warm glow of achievement after a strenuous hike, or the reward we inevitably have at the end, or even the peaceful moments when the wind drops and you feel totally calm within nature – but the uphill struggles too. For whilst I am uphill struggling I am connecting with my physical self, problem-solving in the moment and worrying mindfully, not endlessly.
When I first set out to write this blog, I saw the title I had given myself, ‘The Uphill Struggler,’ as a physical and mental negative: I wasn’t fit enough and I didn’t have the willpower to do it. That’s why it was funny.
Now I realise that great happiness is found in uphill struggling: not only is it training my legs and improving my physical fitness, but it also trains my mind to appreciate the moment and not become bogged down in daily stress.
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