Perspective

Often I hike the Grouse Grind trail alone, which on any other trail is probably foolhardy, but on the Grind is fine, given it's occasional resemblance to a traffic jam. But this time of year, if the trail is still open, I hike with someone, because the numbers of hikers is definitely way down. My hiking companion lately is my fortunately-also-obsessed younger brother. When we can, we go together. We have a semi-ritual of talking for maybe the first quarter, and then falling into our own rhythms. Usually he leaves me behind. Once or twice I've managed to reverse that, but usually because he was out cycling 20 kilometres up some hill the day before, or something like that. I console myself that I am much older. (Well, two years.)

We went again this week in what looks to be my last of the year. Coming up the mountain you travel through several climate zones. Winter is on at the top of the mountain. The trail was still clear, if wet, but coming out on top, there was snow lying in patches. Some had melted away from last weeks snowfall, but not all. There were skaters on the ice rink. And I rather suspect that it's snowing up there right now, because outside my window it's raining and it's cold, and across where I should be able to see the mountain, there is only grey cloud, and I know it will be colder under that canopy.

I think I slipped under the last wire for this season, and I'm very glad. The sun kept trying to cut through the clouds, and finally, as we sat on top and had our visit and his tea and my non-fat latte, the clouds parted enough to see across to Point Grey and on to Vancouver Island. It was brief, because soon we were back in fog, but it reminded me of one of the reasons for doing this hike, and it's one I often forget to indulge in.

I mean, the benefits of this activity are tremendous. It's a tremendous aerobic workout, and there's no getting out of it, once you're started. I mean, you can stop hiking to rest, but you're going to have to go again if you ever want to go home. Sometimes you see deer, which is pretty fine for a city kid like me, though usually it's only squirrels or chipmunks. Or ravens; really cool birds. Often though, and especially if I'm alone, I'll come out on top, and just head straight for the gondola and the ride down. I forget to look.

We sat and drank our drinks and looked out at the view, and I thought, perspective. That's why I come. There are a million people down there, give or take a few, and they're all busy in one way or another. Everyone has problems, worries, stress. If not today, then tomorrow, because that's how life is. But they're all so small. I'm so small. Look how big the world is. Just look.

So what am I worried about today? I'm trying to sort the bureaucracy in my office, the piles of paper. Isn't that funny? I mean it is necessary stuff I'm digging through, and getting clarity in my office will give clarity to my days. I know that. But I think I'll go for a walk in the rain just now anyway. It'll make the paper easier to deal with when I get back, and heck, it could be snowing tomorrow, and then where would I be? (Yes, yes, back here finishing up this task. Don't worry.)

But while I look forward to the new season on the Grind, months away, still, I can take myself down to the path by the sea, and do it regularly. Because that's just over there, five minutes from my apartment, and that could keep me exercised till the mountain is a walk-in-the-park again. And isn't it true that the view over water gives that same perspective of distance, space, possibility? I think so, as long as I don't forget to look.