The wrong way to walk the loop

I didn't set out to walk the six-mile loop this morning, but after I'd passed the point of no return and conquered the ice-covered slope, there was nothing to do but keep going.

I've kept that loop in front of me all winter as I've walked around the countryside and worked out at the rec center. One fine spring day, I told myself, I'll gather together a few congenial friends and we'll walk up the hill and along the ridge and down the other side of the hill and along the creek and back home again. I'll choose a day when the sky is clear and the road is dry, and we'll equip ourselves with water bottles, high-protein snacks, sunscreen, pepper spray, perhaps a notebook and pen for recording brilliant Thoreauvian insights. We'll look at birds and wildflowers and we'll encourage each other through the steep stretches, and at the end of the loop we'll come home to a celebratory lunch of homemade soup and sandwiches.

That's the right way to walk the loop. Today I did it the wrong way. For this I blame the anger.

Last night I went to bed angry and woke up angry (never mind why), and I tried all morning to work through the anger: I washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen, did laundry, emptied the catbox, filled the birdfeeders, listened to Car Talk, read some Henry James. Still angry. There was no one to complain to except the cat and I couldn't go out anywhere without coming to terms with the car that hates me, so I went for a walk.

I took a water bottle and some kleenexes but no snacks, which was a mistake since all I'd had for breakfast was a little toast and juice. No sunscreen, no pepper spray, no notebook and pen (which was fine since it's difficult to have insights when you're angry), no congenial companions, and no celebratory lunch at the end of the road. The temperature was in the 40s but up on the ridge the wind was sharp, and the road was icy in the shady spots and muddy in the sun.

At first I intended to keep walking until the anger dissipated and then turn around, but somewhere along the way I lost track of time and place. I was halfway up the dangling deer-spine hill when I realized that I'd been walking without seeing anything, all my attention focused on the internal chaos. I forced myself to look around, but it took a great deal of effort.

I made it to the top of the ridge still angry, walked past the impressive views still angry, avoided the annoying dogs still angry. I plodded through the mud and ice not caring where I ended up, and as I walked down the hill on the other side, I was surprised to find that I'd passed the half-way mark on the six-mile loop. Might as well just keep walking--still angry.

Then I came around a curve and saw in front of me a stretch of road that squeezed between a rocky bluff and a steep wooded slope falling down to the creek. For about a quarter mile the road sloped up, first gently and then steeply, and the entire surface was covered with ice.

One thing I know: walking uphill on ice right next to a cliff is not easy, and anger doesn't help. There was no way around and I wasn't going back, so I swallowed my anger and picked my way along the narrow snow-covered shoulder, certain that if I fell and broke my neck, no one would even know where to look for me.

But I didn't fall. I made it home in one piece, hungry and thirsty and sweaty and tired but no longer angry. I'm a little annoyed with myself for walking the loop without any hoopla, but I suppose the hoopla can wait for the next time. Next time I'll walk the loop the right way. Next time I'll leave the anger at home.