Rock Thoughts

Adam and I attempted another portion of the Colorado Trail at the start of July. I'm not sure why I like "attempted" for the verb there, other than I suppose "attempt" is an action I identify with more strongly with than "complete" or "conquer." This time we were joined by our nervous friend, James, and his likewise nervous dog, Sully. I do enjoy when humans and their dogs resemble one another (often unbeknownst to the human). They were great to have along, and I am certain they toned down the possibility of me having a conniption. Maybe I should always travel with a buffer for Adam's sake. 

On our second day out, we pulled over to a look-out point on Kenosha Pass, to rest a bit and because James wanted to throw out some of his trail mix to reduce weight (I meant to ask him if that really made a difference). I perched up on a rock, Adam climbed below with a roll of toilet paper to, you know, and James was tossing peanuts. I believe Sully wanted to see what Adam was doing, which was making James nervous because the drop off was fairly severe. I should mention my trail name is "Moss," because I enjoy hanging out on rocks. On my large sitting rock were several small rocks, displayed in a cairn of sorts. But they weren't signifying a trail. They were covered with words. It may be assumed that anyone who carves words into rocks and poses them as a cairn wants someone to read their work. I only found two of them to be picture worthy: 

"Expectation of Perfection" 

"Anger"

The rest of them were disturbing but relatable to anyone who's ever tortured themselves with a good dose of self-deprecating internal chatter:

unworthy

self-hate

shame of my family

disappointment to everyone

I thought about the rocks for a long time. I even brought them up to a complete stranger, another thru-hiker who arrived at our resting spot and paused to wait for his wife, who was lagging a bit behind. We made a little small talk: yes, they were doing the full trail, took 6 weeks off from work; no, we're just going to Breckenridge; oh, that's nice, what a beautiful segment you chose to hike. I warned this stranger, "Don't come over here by these sad rocks!" and described what we'd found. We joked a bit, him chiding, "Did you look over the edge to see if anyone's down there?" We all chuckled and when we saw him and his wife again a few hours later later we chuckled again. Adam had forgotten speaking to them before, asking, "Are you doing the whole thing?" The man responded, "Yeah, remember, we talked before? By the negative rocks!" Ha, ha, ha, negative rocks. 

We started walking again and were quiet, keeping our thoughts of discomfort with our packs or even bliss with our simple quest of walking to water and setting up camps and resting and eating...quiet like this, and I think I even forgot about the rocks for a bit until James said, "Are you guys feeling any of the rock thoughts?" Adam didn't understand what he meant at first, the rocks weren't as much a part of his journey down to the wilderness toilet, but I was instantly pleased: "No, I'm not, not at all!" James didn't think he was either, and we were both pleasantly surprised with this state of being. The trail was good for us, and I don't think either of us are strangers to rock thoughts. 

I've always wanted, to some degree, the ability to control my world, and this is the kind of desire that gets people stuck in rock thoughts. But I know that I will always be afraid to not know what's coming. When I don't know what to expect, I go through every comprehensible way for the situation to go horribly in my head until I work myself into a mental paralysis of sorts. Then the thing happens, and I breathe, and do, and reflect, and go home, and run, and all is well with Adam and some dinner and mindless television. It hasn't been until recent years that I've learned I have the ability to cope. I think the most destructive rock carving was the one that said, "Expectation of Perfection." Because if maturity or therapy or common sense don't step in to alter this impossible expectation to fit reality, the world is a pretty torturous place to live in.

I now feel really badly about chuckling. What does it say about the stigma of mental illness when four happy hikers happen upon a collection of stones with suicidal messages and chuckle about it? I'm disturbed by our own flippancy. I hope he or she had a healing walk...I'm drawn to the trail now, because for the first time in my life I found backpacking to be the retreat those other crazy people keep talking about. That must be why the stone carver was out there, right? To heal. It was a pretty serene location for some cathartic rock carving (and pooping, if you ask Adam).