Barbara: Haven’t we all had our share of hard times when we’ve felt like we were at the bottom of the barrel of life? Perhaps the worst for me was when I lost my first husband to a stroke at age thirty-five. My friend Pat’s husband died suddenly of a heart attack when the oldest of her three boys was just 17. Years later we discovered this piece of life history we have in common, including our similar pathway of turning to sports and exercise to work our way out of our grief. We’re not sure why it works, but it does, and now we’ve started sharing this wisdom with a hiking and biking friend who needed some trail markers of her own on the path to wholeness. Here’s how it happened:

November can be a dreary month in Vermont with grey wallpapering the sky, wetness underfoot, and temperatures in the freezing range. But being optimists, Pat and I conspired to take a hike anyway, knowing we always find beauty in the woods and enjoy sharing an adventure regardless of the season. We opted for a trek on the Nordic trail network of the Trapp Family Lodge where we felt we would be safe from deer hunters, another possible roadblock to getting outdoors in the late fall, at least in Vermont (although it is easy to hike safely in hunting season).

And then we had an insight—to share the outdoors with Dottie, a friend whose husband had recently died suddenly and totally unexpectedly. A few weeks had passed since the tragic event and we felt it would be ok to ask her to join us, that she might be ready for a change of scenery.

We met in the parking lot at Trapp’s and added a jacket layer and wool hats as protection against the 32-degree chill amplified by a stiff wind. We slipped into our day packs and adjusted trekking poles. In minutes we were climbing gently, three abreast, getting acquainted and reacquainted.

Pat: I had not met Dottie before we started our hike up to the cabin at Trapp’s—a 10k round trip. I knew her late husband Ken in the 80’s, but hadn’t seen him in about 15 years. Ken and I met through our love of cycling, about seven years after the death of my first husband, Bob.

One of my primary reactions to Bob’s death was anger. I was angry that he hadn’t taken better care of himself; angry that I was left to finish the house we were building; angry that he wasn’t around to help with the raising of our sons. I dealt with the anger by getting on my bike. I could grind away in those large gears until I finally felt calm. I could enter bike races and feel strong. I could bike by myself to get some time alone from the stress of going back to college full time while raising my sons.

By the time I met Ken, I had been biking and racing for years and my fitness level had never been better. Ken would meet me (and a few other friends) on Saturday mornings and we would bike 50-65 miles. He always brought donuts! Sometimes Ken and I would do another long bike ride mid-week. The culmination of all this biking was our decision to ride the length of Vermont from the Canadian border to the Massachusetts line (200 miles) in one day. On the summer solstice, the longest day of the year in 1988, we started at 6 am near Troy, Vermont. There were three of us—Ken, our mutual friend, Jim, and me. We had a sag wagon to carry our food, and the determination to do this in spite of the rain. Close to 8pm that night we biked over the Massachusetts line. I was wet, hungry and elated! Without Ken and Jim to draft on, especially as we climbed the aptly named Terrible Mountain at about mile 150, I would not have made it.

Even though I hadn’t seen Ken in years, when I heard of his death I immediately knew that I wanted to go to his Memorial service. I needed to thank him for being my bike buddy, and to say good-bye.

Barbara: We found large evenly spaced tracks on the trail – not from a moose or a catamount which would have been a great find – but from some heavy machinery that had recently passed. Shortly, we came upon a backhoe blocking our path. The one-armed dirt bully seemed incongruous on a trek away from civilization into the deepening woods. It looked so strange standing there silently that it made me smile. I stepped up close and peered inside, then tested the door out of curiosity. It swung open. I don’t know why, but I called to Dottie: “Hey, climb in and pretend you’re driving so I can take your picture!” She looked at me incredulously and said only, “Me?” “Yes, you,” I said, “it’ll make a silly picture to show your friends.” Dottie obliged, getting into the fun of the moment, and once in the seat and smiling broadly said, “I can show everyone the new career I’m considering!” (Dottie is a nurse and was feeling unsure about returning to work.) We giggled. She waved from her perch.

Pat: As we continued hiking, Dottie caught me up on Ken’s life since I had last seen him. She assured me that his food tastes had become more sophisticated! I knew it would be good for her to talk about him–part of healing from grief is to remember the person by talking over and over about your life with him/her, and often about the death. I am a retired counselor who has experience in grief work. I wanted to be Dottie’s friend, not her therapist– but I could use my skills to listen to her.  She asked both of us how long the pain would last. Of course we didn’t have the answer.

Barbara: We continued our climb, stopping now and then to catch our breath. Dottie and Pat were discovering mutual biking acquaintances. I was remembering how I had turned to skiing to balm my grief wounds after Horst died. It seemed to me that the process of negotiating the alpine terrain, practicing my parallel turns and keeping up with a ski buddy amidst the beauty of the great outdoors conspired to occupy my mind, and while I was thus freed from dwelling on my life situation, my emotions had a little space in which to heal. All those little healing moments accumulated over time and I began to feel better, back in control. I told Dottie about this and Pat agreed with my assessment.

It was drawing towards lunch time as the Slayton Pasture Cabin came into view; I was definitely ready for a sit-down break. The benches on the porch were inviting but we could see the wind blowing a snow squall squarely in that direction. Dottie decided to do the obvious and test the door. It was not locked. No one was there and it was just as cold inside as out, except for the blessing of no wind. We sat down with a sigh and opened our lunch.

Pat: Dottie had brought some chocolate peanut butter candies that a friend had made for her. She shared them with us, saying they were somewhat old. I’m sure they would have tasted better fresh but for me there is something about sharing food that means caring, and this was special food.  I remembered the many dishes of lasagna that kept showing up at our house after Bob died, and how my sons and I were able to laugh about it together despite our pain.

After about a half hour of eating and talking the three of us began to get chilled and our hands were going numb in the damp cabin. It was time to start the hike down. We talked about “normal” things like the advantage of using poles while hiking, or whether my feet were cold from my encounter with the mud trap, but Ken’s death was always with us. Dottie has a long climb ahead of her and in the process of grief, just like climbing a mountain, the path is not always straight. On unfamiliar ground you can get lost along the way and have to backtrack to find your way again.

At one point I disagreed with something Barbara said to Dottie about “getting into her new life”.  I knew what she meant but I wanted to make sure Dottie knew that feeling the pain is also important. Of course, there is no “right” way to grieve, and no set timeframe. Each person must heal in their own way and their own time.

We had toyed with the idea of taking a side trail before heading back to the ski lodge but Dottie said she would really rather get back. It reminded me of how tiring grief is and how sudden your energy can leave. I don’t know if this is what Dottie was feeling but I was very glad that she could speak up about what she needed.

Barbara: We wanted to end our hike with our hands wrapped around a warm mug. We found the self-service counter at the Nordic Center and made ourselves tea. It was warm inside and there was a bit of chatter coming from another table that added to the ambience. Pat encountered a friend who joined us for a short while at the table and then snapped a photo of our smiling faces.

Pat, Dottie and I hugged all around and said good-bye. Pat climbed into her car with promises that we would join up when the snow covered these trails for a cross-country ski day and we waved as she drove off. As we two were leisurely motoring home, Dottie turned to me and said, “That was a great day!  Now I wish I could go home and tell my husband all about it.”  “I know, it’s so hard not to have your buddy around anymore to share stories with,” I said. “I’m sorry about that.”  I squeezed her hand and we smiled gently at each other.

Pat: If you have had a recent death in your life, get out and move. It helps. If you are lucky enough to have your loved ones close by, think about that family member or friend who doesn’t and invite them to bike, hike or go for a walk with you.  They will be able to release some of their pain by moving their body and by having someone to tell their stories to.