It was an average Wednesday afternoon, which means the day had already been ruined by the anxiety of deadlines, increasing debt despite the overload of work, and the irrational fear that life would forever feel like being stuffed into a running industrial washing machine.
I buzzed with the urge to run up the side of a mountain, thinking that the answer to all my problems could be found in the trickles of sweat across my forehead and sweeping views from the lower flanks of the Carson Range.
Outside, however, the wind whizzed through Reno at an average of 36 mph. It was the forefront of a winter storm. Luckily—or unluckily—I was blind to it, even as I loaded my dog into the car and drove down McCarran Boulevard to the Caughlin Ranch neighborhood.
This might be a good time to mention how irrationally angry the wind makes me. Maybe it’s because my bangs become weapons, tormenting my eyes with small but sharp whips. Or maybe it’s the chill that the wind brings, which can make a sunny day frigid. Maybe it’s that the wind makes it impossible to grab on to anything meaningful—thoughts, words from passers-by, the flaps of my jackets.
When I parked at the Caughlin Ranch trail, the turbulent conditions became apparent. I became immediately and unreasonably outraged—but my dog’s harness was already clipped to the leash, and I knew I couldn’t say no to her now. We left the safety of the car and began our walk along Alum Creek.
Alum Creek runs between the manicured landscapes and million-dollar homes of Caughlin Ranch. A paved path follows along through the development and into the Sierra Front open space. Here are miles and miles of county and Forest Service land, crisscrossed with pedestrian and motorized trails, and the object of my day’s ambitions: Cross Peak.
Though the paved path was gentle, the wind accosted the serenity. It forced the hood I was wearing down, exposing the bangs I had so carefully placed underneath. As I went to fix this, the wind slapped me, bringing with it grit from the foothills above. Once I thought I found a position that most protected me from the assault, the wind would reposition itself and attack again.
Thoughts of turning around crossed my mind every other step, but I was stubborn with spite and holding out hope that at some point, I could beat the wind—that after I climbed Cross Peak, it would somehow relent.
As we got to the open space, the wind grew stronger. It was now unburdened by the blockade of houses and planted trees. It was just the wind, my dog and me.
I picked up speed, thinking that while I couldn’t best the wind, I could try to limit my time spent beneath its wrath. As I began my climb up Cross Peak, the wind grew stronger yet. It threw me off balance. I felt its weight on my back, pushing my steps forward before I was ready to take them. At the top, I could hardly enjoy the view before the wind blew the snot out of my nose, carrying it five feet away to adorn a poor, dissected bunch of grass.
I raced back down the mountain and through the neighborhood, fueled by frustration, not letting my dog stop to sniff anything. I came home in a mood worse than when I left. I was completely defeated—completely overwhelmed by those things out of my control.
I seethed to my partner. “The wind! The wind!” I punched the air with my hand, hoping he would join in with the expletives and rage.
What he said, instead, made me even madder: “At least you got to go for a hike!”
It’s weeks later now, and I still haven’t been back to that trail. I’m still holding a grudge. But I’ve driven by Caughlin Ranch and thought about how, when I first moved to Reno from Tahoe, I would get so discouraged by the local environment.
I wanted to walk into a forest and feel protected, but here I was in a land that looks like sandpaper ready to shred me down. I wanted shade and cool weather, but here, the sun looks into your soul, and the threat of rattlesnakes was around each switchback. I’d get frustrated. I just wanted one easy escape, where I could go and hide from people. But the people in Reno were with me on the trails I climbed, always there. I’d get sad and then frustrated.
I think about this time in my life and how closed off it made me. It wasn’t just hiking or nature; it was all of life.
Now, I think again and again about how I’m grateful that I let myself out of that dizzying washing machine, and that I know where I can walk for miles without anyone bothering me. Where I can see spring blooms and fall color. That I can walk out into the sage in the morning and see the long feet of jackrabbits as they kick away into the distance.
Someone recently explained to me the concept of granular gratitude. It goes beyond a vague mantra, like, “I’m so grateful for chocolate.” Instead, it asks you to absorb what it means to be able to experience the chocolate and produce gratitude for all of the things surrounding it—for the money you had to buy chocolate, that you live in a place where you can walk into a store and buy chocolate, that you have hands to unwrap the chocolate and taste buds to appreciate the flavor.
As I enter the new year, I want to focus on this type of gratitude. The world is angry and uncontrollable, and it’s growing more so. It can suck you all the way down. That’s why on the next windy hike I take, I’ll try to remember how grateful I am not for hiking, but for the fact that I can still walk, still climb to the peak, and still scream at the top of my lungs at the relentless wind—grateful that our sandpaper world lives on the edge of our neighborhoods. Grateful that I didn’t give up.