| | | Lucy Duttenhofer
Junior Memoir
Oak Knoll School of the Holy Child
Summit, NJ
TAKE A WALK
Tour du Mont Blanc. 10,000’. France; Italy; Switzerland.
One of the most popular, challenging, and rewarding long-distance walks in Europe, which circles the Mont Blanc massif. A renowned marker of mental and physical strength.
Last summer, I thought I was going to die. I looked up at the enormous boulders in front of me and the cliffs to each side of me and felt a cold sweat across my sunburnt forehead. Charlie's butt in front of me, poking out from under his trekking backpack, was directly even with my face because of the incline. I knew his American flag shorts would be the last thing I saw right before I died on a mountain in a foreign country. Would I even get a proper funeral? Would my sunburn stay with me after death, or will I be pale? Did the cracker-sized blister on my ankle just pop? Is it possible for both my legs to fall off spontaneously?
When I heaved myself up the final push, my legs shook, and I couldn't breathe. An eerie silence fell over the group, and I was sure everyone was internally celebrating their mere escape from death like I was. Instead, when I looked up, I saw all my friends looking out to the valleys that surrounded us on both sides. We stood on top of a peak, on the exact border of France and Spain, with two completely different countries at fingertips length. Here, though, everything was the same. There were no cultural, political, or social differences, just rock formations and the same niche of fat, brown, free-range mountain cows in the distance. I could trace the skinny path we had trekked up through the whole valley: the sun still shimmered in a morning glow by the time we had completed several miles. A few minutes passed after I realized a butt wouldn't be my final vision, and suddenly, everyone was talking and laughing and breaking open granola bars.
Some time passed before we began descending over the other side of the ridge, knees buckling over the little rocks that covered the path. There wasn't a tree in sight, just a few scraggly goats in the distance, and storm clouds made the air smell like a summer rain was coming soon. Chatter flowed around me as raindrops began to coat our sweat-covered bodies, but I trudged on with a genuine smile creasing my cheeks. For hours, we continued descending, even as hail bounced off our raincoats and our boots became caked in mud. At one point, I slipped on a wet rock and face planted into a grassy hole of wet rainwater. I paused for a minute, hands still in the tiny pond, and then began hysterically laughing, realizing how much fun I was having. The hail poured and bounced off rocks so loudly that I couldn't hear anyone else, but I turned to see them laughing too. As the trail became less rocky, we took turns sliding on our stomachs like penguins down the muddy paths. While pulling out my foot from a mud hole, I thought about how easy and minuscule our tremendous ascent seemed now. The shaking of my legs was long forgotten, and as the day continued, I kept thinking about the satisfaction and pure happiness this specific hike had provided me. I realized that all my hiking, walking, and trekking experiences had given me more than any advice or school ever had.
A year before I spent time in the Pyrenees, I shipped myself to Alaska during the summer. Out of personal choice and pure interest in the world, I signed up for a hiking program with eleven other teenagers from across the country without our phones. I don't remember a doubt crossing my mind when I signed up, but rather a burning desire for whatever the trip held. For months before my Alaskan expedition, I struggled with feeling washed up. Unworthy. Unaccomplished. So when I saw the opportunity to get lost in old-fashioned rugged nature and scale ice walls on the biggest glacier in the biggest state, I wanted in. My inner dissatisfaction stemmed from the type-A, east coast pressure cooker that was my life; the one which I had committed my entire childhood to, attempting to be the fastest and best athlete on a soccer and lacrosse field. Summers were spent at tournaments and winters prepping for the summer. Wednesdays were for back-to-back practices, and Fridays were for weight lifting. By high school, I had too many injuries to count and had been advised by professionals up and down the Eastern seaboard to stop running. I crumbled when I got to freshman year in September, watching my old teammates and most of my grade succeed and continue to be validated by their athletic ability. That was supposed to be me, yet I couldn't jog down the street. If I wasn't an athlete, what the hell was I?
For months, then, the weight of being unworthy sat on my shoulders like a fat elephant. My only reprieve came when I went to Alaska. When I challenged myself through something so simple: walking. I trekked across miles of glacier and rough Alaskan wilderness and picked up pieces of myself along the way. Maybe high schoolers didn't see me as athletic or inspiring, but it didn't matter because I now did. I knew I could carry sixty pounds on my back and still scramble up rock formations with only my hands. I could heave myself up an ice face with nothing but a pick and crampons. It didn't matter if everyone else didn’t know that I had accomplished so much because it only mattered that I knew.
The feeling that exploded in me during my time in Alaska is what encouraged me to hike in Europe the following year. The weight that accumulated and pulled on me in between the trips melted away when I tied up my hiking boots again, ready to re-find that missing puzzle piece again.
Tripping over a branch, I regained focus, raising my eyes to look at the wet trees surrounding us. Their limbs gave us a reprieve from the pounding rain. I turned around, looking back at the section of the peak we had climbed down. Our trail zig-zagged across its width like a skinny ribbon holding the mountain together. I turned back around, smiling as I felt a similar warmth spread through my body that I first recognized in Alaska all those months ago: satisfaction. I thought back to how the past thirteen months had changed me. Had shown me who I was and given me an avenue to find new pieces of myself that I never even knew I had. Most nights, I'd walk through my neighborhood, just chasing the feeling I had when out on a trek. I'd pump my legs back and forth steadily, just happy to be cruising around. I don't know why I find so much joy in a standard and monotonous task. But I know I kept walking because walking was the first thing to reinstate my confidence after my injuries. It had destroyed everything that I believed a true athlete had to have. It proved that I could accomplish whatever I wanted to. And it showed me that I have the most fun in situations where most people would be uncomfortable or annoyed. It shifted my entire perspective on myself and offered me a lifesaver when the waves of doubt were swallowing me whole.
Angel's Landing. 5,790'. Zion National Park, Utah.
More than a century ago, a Methodist Minister, Federick Vining, saw the massive sandstone cliff and was so in awe that he surmised that only angels might land on it.
Still descending, soaked to the bone from rain, I tuned into the conversation in front of me. Zach was detailing the anti-semitism he faced growing up Jewish in Birmingham, Alabama, as Charlotte recounted her interactions with Mormons while growing up in Colorado. We discussed religion and ethics and what it was like sifting through faith as a child until a comfortable silence fell over us, and I looked back down to my feet.
Walking, I realized, became some sort of religion to me throughout my childhood. My family spent Christmas and Easter on walks through the woods instead of sitting in pews. Before or after meals, we'd head outside for fresh air. What started as my immediate family walking around the block on Christmas Eve blossomed into friends and dogs and kids and cousins walking in obscene weather conditions every major holiday. One year, Easter was celebrated with some of our longest friends. Our five families trekked through the reservation closest to our homes, bundled up in hats and scarves while our winter boots hit half-frozen mud. The following Christmas, with a part of my extended family and their friends, we wore no jackets and summer sneakers to glide under the warm winter sun around town. The next Thanksgiving was filled with enormous parkas and hand warmers as my Mom's side of the family, and I trudged through the snow-covered sidewalks of Minnesota.
One thing prevailed through the oscillating weather conditions and my ruined holiday food comas: each holiday walk gave me more than a homily ever had. Instead of dozing off during the Ave Maria, I learned to talk with my uncles about different challenges in their workforces. Instead of processing up the aisle toward communion, we processed down different paths and trails toward contentment. My cousins and siblings would throw footballs and play tag instead of singing in a Choir, and my close friends would hold little wildflower bouquets rather than hymnal books. Over the years, I learned that religion didn't need to be a rigid structure but rather a genuine feeling - one that I experienced each time we took a holiday walk. I learned to appreciate the years when the sun was warm, or the cold created snowbanks for us to jump into. I learned that being happy in nature was just as pivotal in praising God as singing hymns were. I learned that every piece of advice or story I heard was just as righteous and fundamental as those in the Bible. I learned that angels could land wherever I wanted them to.
The Narrows. 1,500'. Zion National Park, Utah.
The canyon walls close in to form tall narrow canyons with dark corners and the Virgin River flowing throughout. The walls' narrowness form ideal circumstances for life-threatening flash floods during water surges.
When I thought I would die earlier in the day, I had clearly been overdramatizing my emotional distress. In reality, the mental challenge of scaling that first peak almost matched the intensity of the physical challenge. It had only been our second hike of the trip on the fourth day. The first hike had been a simple acclimatizing hike, up and down a more minor elevation as our bodies got used to lower quantities of oxygen and adjusted to significant jet lag. Nick had fallen asleep that night during dinner, sitting up. We were exhausted and moved like we were underwater, yet one of the most challenging parts of the next day was breaking away from the mental blocks and latching onto steadying emotions.
I noticed that the longer I walked, the better I felt. I knew walking grounded me, but it also gave me genuine peace. When the rain stopped and we paused for lunch, I felt like I had a sense of peace and closure from the preceding hours' pure havoc. I slathered French jam and cookie butter onto a part of the baguette, grabbing a piece of salami with the other. The pepper-covered rine stuck to my fingertips as I debated how full I felt. Not physically full, but mentally full. For weeks I had been starving for the emotions that flowed through my veins now: happiness, contentment, confidence, peace.
Six months later, my dog Tucker died. He was thirteen and in perfect health, running around like a puppy only hours before he had a debilitating seizure and his brain swelled to an irreparable size. If I had been anyone else, I think I would have been embarrassed at how hard I cried in the vet's office that night. I had always viewed him as my dog; although he loved every person who would hand him a sliver of cheese, I liked to think of myself as his favorite. Despite being a gangly teenager and a massive labrador, we'd shared a twin bed for years. We'd gone on morning and nighttime walks and curled up in the sand together at our favorite beaches. He was my dog more than he was the rest of my family's, and had brought me so much joy for so many years.
When we returned home, the sinkhole in my chest only expanded, looking at his bed and leash, which he would never use again. The unexpected shock of his death had been what made it so much worse and so much harder to accept. My siblings and parents scattered throughout the house, a melancholy feeling spreading to the corners of every room. I remained in the kitchen, staring at his leash. Without thinking, I stood and traced the red leather with my fingertips. I looked at it through puffy eyes and held it against my face. I thought of him, the big yellow lab everyone in town knew and loved. I wrapped his leash over my shoulders, sliding on my sneakers without realizing what I was doing next. My hand fell to the back doorknob, my lungs still feeling constricted with grief and guilt.
"Who wants to go for a walk?" I called to my sad house, expecting no response.
The January wind whipped my family's faces like a wet towel while our feet skidded across frozen drain runoff. If you had looked out the window of your house that night, you would've watched six hood-cladden, crying-laughing individuals tumble down your street. Our laughter was mixed with the occasional sob, and funny memories of Tucker hopping in the back of a mail truck were intertwined with longing silence. His red leash hung from my neck as I relished the final walk it would take before it was never used again. It had been our makeshift funeral and the undeniably perfect way to heal some of my pain.
Obviously, walking around my neighborhood block didn't erase all of the feelings I wish it had. It hadn't given me all the answers, but it had given me closure. Each step I took down the street revived memories hidden deep in my mind and gave me a chance to smile at what a pivotal role a little yellow puppy played in my life. Each step reminded me that I would keep moving on. Each step was me moving on, forcing myself forward. That night, I had felt like I was drowning under a tidal wave of grief and didn't know how to process any of the overwhelming emotions I experienced. Yet, taking a simple walk transformed my sorrow into gratefulness and agony into reverence.
When I sunk my teeth into the next bite of baguette, a smile creased the corners of my mouth at the taste. I didn’t know what the following January held, but it didn’t matter. In all of that sadness, walking had created such a good memory. It offered me a chance to commemorate a massive piece of my life. It had helped me deal with immense emotional turmoil. And that simple walk reopened life when I felt like it was unbearably narrow.
La Brèche de Roland. 9,199'. Hautes-Pyrénées, France; Aragón, Spain.
Local legend says the gap was created by the knight Roland, who used his sword to cleave the mountain in two while fighting the Muslim army of Saragossa.
Our final push for the day came hours after lunch. We had been walking on a flat portion for much of the afternoon, through an empty valley, around runoff from the morning rain as little goats started to emerge from under the dry rocks. At the end of the valley, at a high elevation, stood a little stone building, its tin roof shimmering in the afternoon sun. It was our hostel for the night, located in an isolated strip of land deep in the Spanish mountains and offering accommodations for hikers from all different directions. It was tricky to keep pushing forward: every time we made it to what I thought was the top of the pitch, I realized there was more height to scale in front of us, which hadn't been visible from the vantage points below.
On one of the final sections, our expedition guide stopped before us to assess and detail the challenge ahead. That morning, the rain had caused a small landslide with some of the smaller boulders on the valley's wall, and as a result, we had to essentially rock climb up a portion of the incline. We had no safety gear and carried our massive trekking packs on our backs. It may have been the limited sleep, but without a second guess the twelve of us collapsed our trekking poles and, one by one, rock climbed up massive boulders. I was behind Charlie, and as he took his turn ascending, I once again found myself at eye level with his American flag-patterned butt. I laughed silently at my dramatics from earlier in the day, our guide directing him from the top as we all held our breath. During the final moments, he wedged his hand between two giant rocks, looking for leverage to boost his leg up.
In the following moments, a 6'3" hunk of a teenage boy came falling from the rock above me. Like a slow-mo scene from a movie, I watched as a piece of the stone he had his entire weight supported by chipped off and fell next to me. To our left was a massive drop to the bottom of the valley, leading to what I assumed would be a painful - and deadly - fall. There was no time to think about that, though, because in the next moments, I extended my arms and braced my legs for the dead weight that was dropped onto me. I fell in a little bit of a heap to my knees from the impact, but surprisingly, I had caught him! And neither of us had taken a deadly fall off the side of a cliff!
Partially lying on the ground with my arms still locked around him from shock and fear, Charlie and I began laughing out of pure astonishment at what had just happened. I could almost feel our guide's deep breath from above us, and after a few minutes, everyone was laughing in shock.
"I'm so glad you happened to be walking behind me," Charlie exhaled, resting his head in pure relief to look at me.
I had my first run-in with the police in Kindergarten. Making eye contact with the uniformed cop in front of me, I was sure the officer had known I hadn't eaten my peas the night before. I peered over at his cruiser and suddenly was grateful for every minute I had spent in school. As my sisters walked in front of me, I questioned why they would ever be walking toward the police officer! Were they going to admit to all the peas they had never eaten before him? My thoughts scattered as my little hand reached for the back of their uniform shirts.
"Good morning, girls!"
My hand stopped mid-air. Peering over my sisters' shoulders, I saw the officer smiling down at us, hands up to hold traffic. My sisters continued their strides forward, exchanging small pleasantries with him as he got us to the other side of the road. I followed the officer with my eyes until his gaze met mine, and he gave me a bright smile. I tentatively smiled back and sprinted to catch up with my older sisters, hoping he wouldn't change his mind and come get me for the peas.
The officer I saw that day, Officer Jerry, became a familiar face in my everyday routine. I'd get up in the morning, feel a burn in my calves as I walked up my hill, cross the street, talk to Officer Jerry, go to school, leave campus, discuss my day with him, walk home, and repeat it the next morning. He became more of a friend than a crossing guard, and each day my walk to school is what made our paths cross. For thirteen years, I’ve taken that same walk through rain, shine, or through ice and snow. And each and every walk built on our relationship, an abnormal one that wouldn't have formed if I lived anywhere else.
The friendship I had with Officer Jerry spread to my family. He talked with my Mom whenever he saw her, met my little brother only days after his birth, and became a big fan of our dog. And every time things seemed to be going south, Officer Jerry appeared.
One morning, Katie passed out and fell down the stairs. The first person at our house was Officer Jerry. There were multiple days when my dog would wander out of our front yard for fun, and the person who always happened to track him down and call my Mom was Officer Jerry. One day, scootering home from Kindergarten, I got tired of my Mom's conservation with a neighbor and launched my scooter down our hill. The two people chasing after me, screaming to turn onto the grass and avoid crashing, were my Mom and Officer Jerry. When my grandpa died, he was one of the officers clearing the way for our funeral procession. He sometimes stopped outside our house to check in when we all were old enough to cross the street alone. Through it all, Officer Jerry showed me what it meant to be a part of a community and what it meant to show people that you cared.
I used to be annoyed by walking to school every day. I saw it as a waste of time or an irritating way to start my day. Yet now, when I step outside my backdoor, and begin my walk, I see it as an opportunity. I smile at the neighbors across the street and talk to those I pass. I wave at my friends' cars and smile at teachers who drive by. Walking daily has given me human connection and fundamental tools for building relationships with random strangers. Growing up, each step I took on the crosswalk helped me build conversational skills and a genuine care for how other people felt. I learned to be empathetic, curious, and authentic when talking with a bald police officer more than triple my age. I learned that a breath of fresh air in the morning is the best way to wake up. I learned that forging relationships is one of the most crucial things any person can do in life.
Each and every walk to school made me experience what it meant to be a part of a community. And each and every walk allowed me to carve out time with an invisible sword for developing connections and authentic relationships with people throughout my neighborhood.
After arriving at the hostel and devouring traditional Spanish beef and rice that night, I lay curled up in my little bunk bed, looking out the window. The entire valley was dark except for a soft dusk light shining over the tops of distant mountains. I felt an ease settle over me as I thought of the day: how challenging and rewarding it had been to climb that first hill and the comfort, happiness, and hail that came after. And just as a massive snore ripped through the air from across the room, I realized that my hike today had shown me I was enamored with the journey rather than the destination. Each step I took on a walk - whether in New Jersey, Alaska, or France - pushed me closer to a new lesson. The names of some of the most amazing hikes I’ve taken chant in my head like an inspirational mantra and connect to even the smallest moments I’ve experienced. Something so simple that I often take for granted, my ability to walk with my own two legs, has given me personal intimacy, emotional truth, and a hunger for adventure. Walking, for me, isn't a physical exercise but rather an emotional one, and it has shaped me into who I believe I am today. Each tear shed, story heard, football thrown, person met, calf strained, and opinion shared while walking has become an essential part of my identity. So when I feel a little lost in the world, all I do is take a walk. |