A special summit

Twenty one years have passed since September 11, 2001.  As the day approaches each year, I feel reflective and solemn remembering the tragedy, the loss, and the helplessness.  What I was never aware of until this past weekend is that four months after that fateful day, a small group hiked Mt. Liberty in the White Mountains and raised an American flag on its peak.  In solidarity, in memorial, and in peace.  This event is called Flags on the 48.

A friend texted me to ask if I’d like to accompany her to Mt. Lincoln to raise a flag.  Ready for an adventure, I was all in.  After an early wake-up call and a drive to the trail head, we started meeting the others in our group and preparing for our hike.  We had a great group who clicked right away.  We shared the job of transporting the flag pole, the base, the flag, and various supplies.  We shared snacks along the way.  We shared stories.  And we shared laughter. 

The summit offered us unexpectedly clear and long range views.  We passed the binoculars around, so we could enjoy the endless White Mountain ranges, a slight haze due to CA wildfires, and the other flags also flying on the other 47 peaks.  The binoculars also came in handy to watch a bear grazing peacefully below us.

  

Each flag waved from 12-2pm, until the time came to dissemble our flag and start our descent.  The day was long and we were all a good tired as we approached the trail head after a full day on the mountain.  Our descent group traded information to enable us to connect on social media and we each headed home.  But not before a trip through McDonald’s drive-thru!

We can’t erase the sadness or tragedy or loss of life from September 11^th, but by taking part in events like Flags on the 48, we can replace the feelings of helplessness with purpose and pride.  Hikers summiting Mt. Lincoln showed such gratitude for our efforts.  We shared why we were there to other hikers who didn’t know about Flags on the 48.  Regardless of how much or how little hikers knew about it, everyone knew this was something special.  I felt so proud to do something bigger than me, to remember all who were lost and all who are still suffering today.  I hope this also helps others continue to remember back to 4 months post-September 11, 2001, when the first group hiked Mt. Liberty – in solidarity, in memorial, and in peace. 

Getting back on the horse

The last time I ran was last Sunday.  When, in my last few miles, I came upon a small pick-up truck parked on the side of the road.  My internal flag went up, heart rate increased, grasp on my pepper spray tightened, and I increased the space between us as I approached a man sitting in the driver seat with the window open.

Man:    You must be tired!  I saw you going up that big hill and around the block!

Me:      [ W A R N I N G – why has he noticed me in two very different areas and why is he sitting here? ]

Maybe 2 minutes later, he passed me (same direction) and gave a normal wave with no further obvious  ‘creepiness’.  But the damage was done with his replaying having seen me go up the hill, around the block, and now, sitting parked for no obvious reason in the one area of the road where there are no houses.  I hope he meant no harm and just has no self-awareness, but I’m going to continue to assume he (and others) might be up to no good.  Similar to living in Florida; assume every body of water contains an alligator and you can’t go wrong.  So I assume anyone/any vehicle has the potential to be bad.  It sucks to think that way, but the alternative could be that I don’t return home.  Not an option.

I haven’t run since then because I’ve felt afraid.  Afraid and incredibly angry.  Afraid of evil people who terrorize women who (god forbid) try to exercise to stay healthy and fit.  Angry that we women are literally risking our lives to go out for a run.

So today I ran.  But I ran with a bodyguard.  Yes, my husband insisted on driving around my route to make sure I felt comfortable.  Honestly, I didn’t argue.  I stepped out in the light of day, knowing my husband was always close by, and still armed with my pepper spray.  And while I was relieved to get back out, I felt so heavy – like when you try to run when you have a lump in your throat.  You just can’t cry and run.  Period.  That’s how today’s run felt.  I can’t get Eliza Fletcher and so many other women who have met the same fate out of my head.  The terror, the pain, and the sorrow whenever she knew she might not make it home.  I just can’t.

I don’t want to be so afraid that I don’t live.  But I also want to stay alive.  Today I got back on the horse, albeit with a safety net.  And I will work on getting back and staying on the horse safely and being even more vigilant than ever.  I read a comment a running insta-friend posted on this topic that really resonated with me:  “…I shifted my focus from the ‘it shouldn’t have to be this way’ to ‘this is the way today’s world is…”  As much as I want to stick my fingers in my ears and block it all out, I know I'm going to have to put on my big-girl running shorts and run.  Run for Eliza...run for myself....run for us all.