Just one more turn

Proudly, I send the photo to a good friend.

Two months ago, I arrived back home with two suitcases and a serious case of burnout. A gentle half-hour walk? Not a chance. Ten minutes of gardening at a time meant I needed a short break to sit down.

For someone who had always been on the move, for whom hiking, running or swimming outdoors meant peace, quiet and finding my way back to myself, that was a rather unsettling realisation. A year of pushing myself hard followed by a month of relentlessly running my body into the ground probably hadn’t been the greatest idea.

Which makes me all the happier about my accidental hike.

I had really only meant to walk up the first hill.

And then around the next turn.

You know how it goes.

Then I remember the almost impossible-to-find Naturfreunde trail winding through the undergrowth. I disappear into the bushes, through a sea of wild blueberries and moss. Every now and then, an actual trail marker appears.

Somewhere along the way, I realise I’d made the classic beginner’s mistake: not enough water.

Brilliant.

Dying of thirst alone on a mountain.

Okay, it isn’t really a mountain yet. More of a hill. But still.

Stubborn as an old donkey, I climb slope after slope through the forest. Even in the shade, the heat is still relentless up here.

Suddenly, a clearing appears before the next patch of woodland. Out of the dark green and brown of the trees, a bright little spot filled with golden grasses seems to glow. Dried by the sun, the stalks sway gently in a welcome breeze.

A moment of stillness.

Then onwards, over little chunks of rock and past wild blackberry bushes.

Finally, a long, thick wooden post comes into view. As I get closer, I realise there’s a face carved into it.

A giant?

An enormous dwarf?

Exhausted, I sink onto the half-log beside it and finish the very last of my water. A photo to remember it by. Sweat runs into my eyes and my cheeks are burning red.

I had already felt as though I might keel over on the first hill. And on several of the climbs after that.

For someone else, this would probably be a pleasant little running route.

For me, 600 metres of elevation mean something different now.

Setting off alone.

Wanting to turn back at first, out of breath, sweating and panting, while other people pass by looking perfectly cheerful.

Not comparing myself.

I walk at my own pace.

Slower.

But steadily.

Every now and then, I stop. To look around.

Not just to find the path ahead, but to watch the round, furry bumblebee nestled inside a purple-pink foxglove. To see the way the light falls through the trees into the forest. To listen to the birdsong and the humming all around me.

And to be unsure whether the path I’ve chosen is even the right one. Because between the overgrown bushes, trees and blueberry plants, it is often barely visible.

To stumble over a thick root without falling.

And when I finally reach the top, to become completely still.

And feel just a little proud of myself.

To acknowledge the climb.

On the way back, I practically fly.

Not only because it’s already getting rather late – the next beginner’s mistake – and my mouth is so dry I can practically feel fur growing on my tongue, but because I’ve seen and felt how I should be moving down there too.

In real life.

“Wow, you’re really red. You should seriously use more sunscreen in the sun!”

That was my friend’s charming response.

Sometimes reality has a way of bringing us back down to earth rather quickly, I think with a smile.