On Yoga, Hiking, and Getting Off the Beaten Path Carrie Owerko

ON YOGA, HIKING, AND GETTING OFF THE BEATEN PATH

CARRIE OWERKO

“OF ALL THE PATHS YOU TAKE IN LIFE, MAKE SURE A FEW OF THEM ARE DIRT.” — JOHN MUIR

Carrie Owerko at Petra, Jordan

Afew years ago, I had the opportunity to teach in Amman, Jordan. After the workshop was over, I visited Petra,

where a Bedouin guide took me to the top of the mountainous park and into areas often closed to the public. It was mid-November and, after hiking around the ruins, the sun began to set rapidly. We made our way down the ungroomed slopes at the back of the parkland, and it became quite dark. The slopes were steep and slippery, and I was, admittedly, pretty scared. My guide was practically barefoot, and the way his feet conformed to the rocks and debris was unlike anything I had ever seen. He was completely at ease. In total darkness, he took hold of my arm and swiftly and adeptly led me down what seemed like some very treacherous terrain.

The next day, my lower legs and feet ached in such a way that every muscle and every track of connective tissue felt as clear and vivid as if I were looking at a highly detailed anatomy book. Though our asana practice takes our body through a wide variety of joint configurations, they are often predictable and repetitive. When hiking in Jordan, the unusual variety of positions and deformations that the bones of my feet, lower legs, hips, and whole body were subjected to as we navigated the rocks, brush, and all manner of natural debris was unique, constantly changing, requiring not only a whole body presence but agility and adaptability. My feet became my eyes. I had to see with my body— and trust its capacity to guide me. Did I mention how sore I was?

I live in New York City. Though I grew up hiking and wandering in the mountains of northern New Mexico, I have been a city dweller for more than half of my life. And though I love New York, I miss the wilderness, the wildness, the diversity of the natural terrain. In New York, we have parks. Some offer variations in grade (slopes) and the opportunity to get off the beaten path and onto some unmanicured ground. Riverside Park, which stretches along the Hudson River on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, is where I go for a dose of daylight and natural terrain when I am in New York. Fortunately, I travel frequently and that often gives me the opportunity to find natural habitats of variable terrain in which to wander. It feels so important, essential even, to get off the smooth and sterile surfaces and into the rough, the bumpy, the unpredictable.

Life is unpredictable. It is full of curveballs and random events and encounters that we hope we can navigate with grace and ease. These wonderful variables, these “obstacles,” are not problems; they are required if we are interested in cultivating resilience and adaptability. These encounters force us to wake up and make new connections within ourselves and develop a fluid mind-state that recognizes the dynamic nature of stability. We learn not to waste vital energy on trying to control all the particularities within our immediate environment and are better able to devote our energy toward developing greater levels awareness and presence.

MY FEET BECAME MY EYES. I HAD TO SEE WITH MY BODY— AND TRUST ITS CAPACITY TO GUIDE ME.

Hiking, walking, and exploring natural, unpredictable, and obstacleladen environments provides a rich landscape of proprioceptive stimuli that is like food for our complex organism. The unevenness, randomness, and inconsistencies of such a landscape require an alert, responsive nervous system. We must adapt and change our movements moment by moment, constantly responding and adapting to the diversity presenting itself.

Hiking in nature is also an integrative experience. The crisp scent of pine and wet, rotting wood are as important for our sense of smell as the constantly changing dance of leaves, light, and shadow are for our eyes. When I am out in nature, it sometimes feels as if every part of me is merging with the surrounding environment. It feels like a homecoming. When practicing yoga, I have similar feelings of coming home to myself and experience a deep sense of belonging. In those times, there is nothing to move away from or toward.

When I am hiking, I am, however, occasionally in pursuit of something. It might be a mountain lake described in a guide book or a summit. The same might be true in my yoga practice. Yet, what I enjoy most is simply the experience of the hike (or the walk or the practice) itself. It really doesn't matter if I make it to the summit, to the lake, to the goal, whatever that might be. It is the act of moving, connecting, and being in nature as my body adapts to the dents and deviations within and beneath me. During such experiences my body has a life of its own, and an innate intelligence. Getting off the beaten path (in the woods or in my practice) gives my cells the opportunity to express and develop this intelligence. And then there is the sheer joy of doing something purely for its own sake.

When out and about in a natural environment, we are away from the constant din of man-made sounds, which is especially important for those of us who live in urban areas. In nature, our cells are not subjected to the sirens, sledgehammers, and car horns of city life. The soundscape of crickets and birds, all the insect and animal noises, are so soothing. It’s the natural symphony that has accompanied our species for most of its evolution on this planet. Just listening to these sounds and the silences that punctuate them feels therapeutic for my heart and brain.

Consider your eyes for a moment (which quite possibly spend way too much time staring at a computer screen). When hiking in nature, they get the opportunity to look at things near, far, and every distance in between. This is so good for the muscles of our eyes, and it is so good for our sense of perspective, both literally and figuratively. Explore how you are using your eyes in Surya Namaskar, for instance, especially as you take your arms and eyes up to the ceiling or as you take a standing back arch. Try standing in Vrksasana and relax your eyes as if looking over a wide horizon. Does this change your experience of the pose? Try closing your eyes. Are you still able to balance? Can you “see” without your eyes? Try practicing challenging poses in a dimly lit room sometimes. How did the low light affect your experience and the quality of your effort?

By witnessing my mother’s loss of the majority of her vision because of macular degeneration, I have learned how important it is to practice seeing and sensing with the whole of my body. My mother had to learn new ways of seeing, moving about, and relating to the world and the people in it. It was not easy. She sometimes felt isolated or separated from those around her because she could not see their facial expressions, and she often felt disoriented and fearful in unfamiliar environments.

I learned how critical it is to maintain one’s capacity to balance after my father died from a head injury resulting from a fall. “Adversity will happen, rest assured,” the late Mary Dunn used to say. We cannot prevent adversity. But we can practice for adversity by deviating from our habitual patterns here and there. We can add little bits of adversity and uncertainty, and perhaps be better able to handle the big adversities as they arise. Something as simple as hiking or walking out in nature is a great way to add a little variability and diversity to our movement experiences.

If we only move about on flat unvarying surfaces or become too set in our routines, if we don’t take time to try things differently—

HIKING, LIKE YOGA, CAN CHALLENGE OUR CAPACITY TO BALANCE, WHICH IS IMMENSELY IMPORTANT, ESPECIALLY AS WE AGE.

or expose ourselves to variables that challenge our organism in some new or novel way— we can become less resilient and less adaptable. We may even become more fearful of change and of the unknown. This goes way beyond the physical and can affect so many aspects of our lives.

Hiking, like yoga, can challenge our capacity to balance, which is immensely important, especially as we age. To better experience the interplay between the two, try practicing poses that challenge your ability to balance on a daily basis. Include in your daily practice poses that require you to stand on one leg. Use the support of the wall if you must, gradually learning to be your own support. If you want to increase the challenge, try these poses on a variety of surfaces. This way of practicing can help prepare your body and nervous system for the diverse and unpredictable surfaces you might encounter when hiking in nature— or just moving about on icy, snow-laden sidewalks. Try moving your arms in different ways, turn your head to the right or left, or look up to the ceiling while standing on one leg. Try closing your eyes. Bend and straighten the leg your are balancing on or rise up on the ball of your foot. All of these variations increase the balance challenge, sharpen your reflexes, and help increase proprioception. Adding some variables to the practice of your standing balances can significantly improve your ability to balance, especially when you are in less predictable physical environments.

Isn’t it wonderful how a classical standing pose sequence requires us to shift from two legs to one leg to one hand and one leg? These poses are great for developing the strong yet flexible feet, ankles, knees, and hips that we need when out on a hike. Adding a little variety to this sequence occasionally can be really helpful for hiking because nature is full of variety and is often unpredictable. Try elevating one or both feet up on a block occasionally or practice on a more dynamic surface such as three mats, placed one on top of another. If you really want to have fun, sandwich a blanket between two sticky mats. This type of experiment mimics the way the top soil displaces itself relative to the bottom, especially when going downhill. Add little doses of adversity so that your body can make new connections.

Have you ever found yourself on a more difficult hike than you anticipated? A friend and I found ourselves on one such hike when teaching together at a yoga festival in Squaw Valley a few summers ago. The granite rocks and cliffs we encountered while trying to make it up to a much talked about mountain lake

Carrie Owerko in Squaw Valley, CA

were significantly more challenging than the arm balance class I had taught that morning! Ekapada Koundinyasana II on the rocks, anyone? Though the shapes our bodies made on the rocks were somewhat similar to those we made in the class, on our hike we had the additional requirement of a huge variety of unique joint configurations as our bodies continuously molded themselves to the ever changing surfaces of the craggy, slippery surfaces. We utilized all the pushing, pulling, and reaching patterns we see our primate cousins access so effortlessly. Imagine for just a moment how many diverse angles your legs and arms (not to mention feet, knees ankles, fingers, etc.) must accommodate on such rough and variable terrain. All of this while maintaining some semblance of stability.

In this context, our skin becomes one of the most important parts of our body, just as it is in yoga. Our skin must be supple yet strong, it must simultaneously protect us yet serve as our largest sensory organ. It is one of our greatest tools of bodily awareness. B.K.S. Iyengar articulates an aspect of this idea so clearly in Light on Life when he uses this subtitle in the chapter on stability: “Awareness: Every Pore of the Skin Has to Become an Eye.” (Aside: It is interesting how the rope work we do in Iyengar Yoga might actually be a great way to strengthen the skin on our hands and improve this vital connection between the hands and the whole body.)