Hiking Through Trauma

By: Birgitte Jensen

The beavers were busy with new construction projects at the beginning of Summer 2020. I hiked back to the same spot I'd first seen them on the Santa Margarita River Trail in Fallbrook, California, every day for months. I sat down and waited. At first, they were cautious, tentatively checking me out, a snout peeking above the waterline here, bubbles zigzagging past me, then rustling in the bushes. Their flat tails slammed down on the surface of the water, echoing against the rocks, warning me to "back the f**k off!" or so I imagined - that's what a New York beaver would say. Weeks turned to months, and I sat quietly observing as they slowly came to ignore me and go on with their routine in my presence. I became part of the 'furniture,' to use a strictly human term. They knew I was there, to be sure, but I was privileged not to be deemed a threat. They peeked their little heads out of the water around dusk and got busy swimming about, reaching for the willow branches hovering over the banks, two, three, and even four young ones, sometimes playing together. They huddled around a barely immersed sandbank mid-river, gnawing on the crunchy stems at their 'dinner table' as the light faded from orange to purple, then a deep black as the pinprick stars illuminated through the night sky above me. I could no longer see my beaver friends in the dark, but the sounds of them crunching, scurrying, and flapping about were reassuring. I was sitting in the dark at the riverbank in the wilderness among all the creatures of the night, and I was surprised at my lack of fear. Only a few months prior, I had left my home of 30 years in Manhattan, New York City.

Spring Break 2020, all the news was about the pandemic in Wuhan and a limited number of people in New York infected with the mysterious new virus. Amélie, my daughter, and I were excited to leave the city for California for our annual visit to be with our friend Jamie and to hike the Santa Margarita River trail that runs close to his property in Fallbrook. I'm a high school teacher, and Amelie was a student at the international boarding school in lower Manhattan where I worked. We sorely needed this touch of nature in our routine. The little-known Santa Margarita River Trail, an hour north of San Diego, is a 10-mile roundtrip hike running along the banks of the river, partly covered by a lush canopy of Oak trees, shielding the path from the intensity of the Southern California Sun.

It's an awe-inspiring oasis of rushing water and birdsong. This was the setting we found ourselves in when the reports back from our friends in New York turned alarming, and we made a choice to stay when our school went entirely online.

The news of the first loss, my teaching job, happened in mid- June of 2020. I loved my job, and it was devastating, so in the late afternoon, I trekked down to the river trail, the only place I felt I could breathe, and cried like a baby, my go-to response to all things difficult. I have always loved nature, but after 30 years in the "big city," I had no clue how much I missed it until I learned to feel the effect in my body, my mind, and deep down in my soul as the losses tallied up throughout the year. This is my story of loss and triumph, and I hiked my way through it all to a place of healing through connecting with nature. I lost my job, I walked the river trail, I lost my partner, I walked the river trail, I lost my home, my dog….the river, the river, the river. The sound of my feet on the path became my meditation, the beavers my therapists, the sun dabbling on my face through the lush green branches of the trail - my sanctuary. Meanwhile, the pandemic raged through the world, and I felt incredibly fortunate and grateful for this unexpected reconnection with nature and my friend Jamie who welcomed us to stay as we waited for the pandemic to subside.

The next loss was my live-in romantic partner of five years in September of 2020. He is alive and well but moved back to Japan, where he met someone and decided to stay.

Shortly thereafter, I had to move my belongings out of our New York City apartment. For the month I spent in anticipation of the wildly uncomfortable task of going back to New York to move my things out, I hiked to the river and cried there every day. As soon as my feet hit the trail, the rhythm of my stride under the oak canopy calmed me, the twinkling water in the sunlight reflected shimmering sparkles on my tear-stained face, and I couldn't ignore my beautiful surroundings. I fell in love with the dragonfly biplanes that monitored the surface of the water and beamed with excitement to tell my friends back in New York about the coyotes, the rattlesnakes, and the tarantulas I spotted on my path. My beaver friends became a regular topic of conversation with my city friends.

What a wonderful world and a welcome distraction from all the sorrows in my heart, and life moved on.

I went back to New York in October to pack up my things and pick up my 16-year-old dog, Mac, whom we'd left behind with a trusted friend, initially thinking I'd be back at the end of Spring Break. He was not in good shape when he arrived in Fallbrook, but he came alive when he realized he had arrived in doggy-heaven. We walked the river trail together almost every day as he gained strength and a renewed interest in life. He has always known what I didn't understand until 2020 - that all our senses awaken in nature. He beamed with pleasure as only a dog can when I picked up the leash and lifted his 65-pound Labrador- Shepherd body into the car, the hill down to the river trail a bit too steep for his hind-legs at that point in his life. His hips loosened up, his senses

awakened at every scent, and I could see the puppy in his cataract-clouded eyes yet again. The river trail healed us both, our bodies felt better, and the sorrows of our world lifted temporarily. We were together, surrounded by beauty and all was good.

In April, Mac fell ill and died suddenly. He hiked the trail for the last time two days before he passed, enjoying the river until the very end. It was a devastating loss for me, but I knew exactly what to do at that point. Hiking is healing on so many levels. My body is moving, my mind is soothed, and the beauty of nature is more effective than any medicine I've ever tried. What I have learned this year is that my deep connection with nature helped soften all the blows from this pandemic year, and had I stayed in my apartment on the 30th floor of a high rise in New York, all the sadness of this time would have felt so much heavier to carry. So, I urge you, get out, walk the path of least resistance and immerse yourself in the beauty of nature to heal the trauma of the losses, so many of us have felt this past couple of years.