Yesterday, about halfway through my morning walk (just when turning around and going back would do me no good), it started to rain. At first I was a little freaked out by this, since I was pushing my little guy in the stroller in front of me -- I had visions of a wet and screaming 3-month old keeping me company for the next mile and a half, only to catch pneumonia by the time we got to the car. I was relieved, however, that our investment in an awesome outdoor stroller had really paid off, and I was able to keep the little one warm, dry and sleeping the whole way back.
Once my motherly worries subsided, and I'd successfully stowed my iPod, phone and keys in a waterproof pouch, I got to focus on myself and the trail. As the rain steadily fell, I gave up the fruitless exercise of dodging beneath the occasional tree to stay slightly drier; and after about five minutes, I let go of the hope that any part of me would not return home drenched and muddy.
After that, I settled into the dreary day and actually began to enjoy my watery walk. All around the trail, my favorite fall flowers are in bloom -- the hardy, rough-looking ones that don't appear in florist's shops but are startlingly beautiful in their own unique way. Though I'm sure they are stunning on a sunny day, their beauty was enhanced against the gray world around them. The cat's tails stood out clearer, and even the tiniest, spindly little plants became sparkling chains of light as the raindrops formed diamonds on their tips.
There were fewer people at the trail than usual, but those who were there became friendlier once the rain started. It was as though we were part of a secret society of people who -- yes, perhaps -- are too stupid to check the weather before going out to the trail; but who also get to see that beautiful place in a state that few people get the chance to appreciate.
It all took me back about a decade (or more... sigh), when getting caught in a rainstorm far from shelter was part of my daily reality. Hiking with friends in the English Lake District...riding a borrowed bike through the wilderness near a remote Hungarian town...ducking dripping wet into a coffee shop in Krakow for a respite from the downpour....finding shelter in museums and churches all over Europe while waiting for the rain to stop, the hostel to open, or the train to arrive. And more recently, navigating with MDH through the sideways rain at Ireland's breathtaking Cliffs of Moher before warming up with a well-deserved Guinness and shepherd's pie.
These memories, this rain, brought back a part of myself that seems to be getting lost the more I work my way into responsible, sensible adulthood. But it's still there. It's the part of me in love with the world, thirsty for adventure, and ready to take life's challenges as they come. This part of me can just let the rain roll on, hike peacefully through the mud, and admire the flowers.
Maybe forgetting to check the weather before hitting the trail isn't the worst thing in the world.
2 comments:
What? It rained in the Lake District? :) Do you remember how utterly spongy that turf was, too? It was like the whole world had become a device to squeeze water into our clothes. I also recall our desperation to find a laundry machine in Keswick. Who knew we'd once wistfully remember such things?
Oh, man, I forgot about the laundry! Thank goodness I have you and your good memory around to help me out...
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