• Hiking and Miracles

Can you see Teddy?

My first hike with the dogs that I'm pet sitting was a week ago. The dogs' mom was showing me the ropes. Every morning she hikes briskly for an hour with Rena, a border collie mix, and Teddy, a Lab mix. For our first walk together the dogs' mom chose a narrow, up-and-down trail. Santa Fe is 7,000 feet above sea level. I live at sea level and am not in shape. After a few steps I gasped for air. I worried about falling and hurting my arthritic knees on the bumpy path. Those poor dogs, I thought. How in the hell am I going to pull this off? Their mom was kind. Do what you're comfortable doing, she said. There are easier paths.

On a flat dirt road the next morning I dragged myself a hundred yards or so, then stood, out of breath, my legs quivering. Rena and Teddy scampered up and down hills. Their mom, almost out of sight, looked back at me. I felt ashamed. I knew I could do better, but when? That afternoon the dogs' mom left on her trip. I dutifully woke at six every morning and drove to the flat road. Every day I walked a little farther, a little longer.

Rena and Teddy drink after our hike.

Today was the first day I haven't had a refrigerator on my chest on our morning hike. Today Rena branched off from that flat dirt road and expectantly looked back at me. What the heck, I thought. The dogs led the way up a dirt-and-rock path to a peak overlooking a valley. In their crunchy -granola style, Santa Feans placed a handmade meditation chair at the overlook. I sat, drank lukewarm coffee and gave the dogs treats. The three of us took another path back—which I chose!—that wound up and around hills. I didn't know where that path would lead, and therein is the miracle: I was willing to venture into the unknown.

I carried a cane, I sweated, but I did it. Can I get a fist pump, a chest bump, a Wahoo? Because it's just a hike, but it feels like a miracle.