“I need to find another way,” said Willis, my husband of nearly 50 years. His matter-of-fact tone sounded like he thought he had a choice of trails when there was only this trail. It was either up or down.
It was close to 11:30 a.m. on a sunny Friday, May 20, 2022. We were more than three hours into the steady hike up the steep ascent past Vernal Falls and on to the top of Nevada Falls in Yosemite National Park. His hiking poles were up on either side of his right foot, resting on a granite step taller than his knees—his 12-pound backpack strapped closely to his body. He couldn’t pull himself up.
“There is no other way,” I said, equally matter-of-factly.
An eagle circling in the crystalline sky above would have seen two tiny figures clambering up the steep granite mountain face between two vertically aligned magnificent waterfalls on the Mist Trail. As we climbed, looking back down the trail, brilliant rainbows appeared through the mist from the falls created by the sunlight.
We made the top of the first falls, Vernal, after climbing the 600 irregular, challenging, slippery granite steps through the mist along the steep wet trail. In the warm sun of this May day, we were now standing on the stone steps leading to the top of Nevada Falls and it was all either up or down. And down didn’t feel like a safe option on the steep, slippery steps.
We were both physically feeling the effects of the constant exertion of hiking ever higher up the steep, rugged, nearly 2,000-foot elevation gain, each wondering how much longer our aging muscles would respond to the demands of lifting our bodies up and up.
“May I give you a push?” I asked, wondering just how much help my 115 pounds on his slim 5’10” frame could be.
“Please.”
I slid my hands under his backpack and lifted. And he was up one more of the hundreds of granite steps chiseled out of the mountain on the way to the top. Willis had celebrated his 86th birthday on May 13 and the next day, I turned 84.
This hike was another journey into the unknown, just like aging has always been for me.
We had hiked the Mist Trail more than two decades ago for my 60th birthday so we knew the topography. But we didn’t know how our bodies were going to perform at ages others would label as elderly. When I was young, I didn’t think about how my body would perform. I just assumed it would. I was insatiably curious and felt excitement at what I didn’t yet know. I was growing my experiences.
As I aged—and that seems to mean different things to different people at different ages—I had more experience with possible limitations. So in my world, the journey into the unknown—both life and this hike—was about exploring and discovering what’s possible while being curious and feeling excitement. Not just superficial curiosity—Can I do it?—but genuine curiosity—What would it be like to do it? Why is it important to me?
I call this dynamic aging. When I am being genuinely curious, it generates excitement.
What happens when there is no excitement?
This was the question I asked Willis in May 2021, seven months after his successful right hip replacement at 84. We were in the car and I was driving us into town for weekly errands.
“It seems like you’ve lost your excitement for living since the surgery,” I observed.
Sure, we had been in the midst of the COVID pandemic in October 2020 at the time of the surgery. We had hunkered down because it made a lot of sense to us to be careful about what we did and where we went. Prior to the surgery, he had spent 18 months or more in pain and with limited range of motion because of his hip.
But now I was wondering why, after being vaccinated and physically getting stronger, he still didn’t seem to be excited about anything. It seemed like the “dynamic” had gone out of aging for him.
We had been married for 46 years. We had shared so many adventures—getting me through law school, hiking in most of the national parks, traveling and living for two years in Tokyo, Japan while he worked for Disney on the opening of Tokyo Disneyland, parenting our four fascinating children of our blended family, celebrating the joys of eight delightfully diverse grandchildren, exploring the unknown of our retirement years, buying undeveloped land on the side of a mountain and creating a home and system of trails where there was nothing before, getting me through coach training and starting my first-ever business.
Our life together had been a reflection of our intention and commitment to live healthy, active and productive lives together, cherishing and loving one another, and discovering what dynamic aging means to us.
“What’s going on with you right now?” I asked, with genuine curiosity.
Without his excitement, I was beginning to feel alone and fearful for what our future held.
Willis thought for a moment.
“I didn’t realize I wasn’t excited until you just asked me. You’re right. I feel like I’ve lost my curiosity. Part of it is I’m afraid of falling.” Before the surgery he was in a lot of pain and his right hip was unreliable.
“Now I feel like I’ve lost strength throughout my body and I don’t want to do something stupid that could result in another trip to the ER or hospital.”
I reached over to take his hand, feeling the fear. Post-op had been a tough time for both of us.
His recovery after hip surgery had been fraught with repeat emergency room and hospital visits. The surgery was a success but he was released from the hospital with an undiagnosed staph infection which, several days later, required a return to our local hospital. Then he passed out one night at home and I had to call 911. The paramedics insisted he go to the ER. He didn’t want to go in the ambulance so I drove him. It was October 2020 – the COVID pandemic was in full swing. I couldn’t go into the ER or hospital with him.
I called the ER when we arrived and helped him carefully get out of the car—seven days post hip surgery—using a walker. I walked with him to the automatic double glass doors. When a nurse arrived and he transferred from the walker to sit in a wheelchair, I watched as he and the nurse wheeled and disappeared down a corridor into the bowels of the ER as the doors swung shut. I stood outside alone in the cold, dark night. Tears welled up, I felt a flush of heat and fear flash through my body. Would I see him again alive?
As I waited alone in the car, I texted our four children to tell them what was happening. The nearest lived 50 miles away. An hour later, after the ER nurse called to tell me they would be moving him by ambulance to a larger medical facility where he had had the surgery, I headed home.
I drove through the darkened streets of our small town, up the steep grade to the upper valley, across the unlighted gently rolling hills of the valley floor, continuing up the narrow, dark road to the open gate to our Ranch on the side of a mountain. It was darker than dark—no streetlights in our remote location—my headlights cutting through the darkness. I drove through the gate, parked on the steep driveway, got out and using a flashlight, slid the heavy 21-foot long wrought iron gate closed and locked the padlock.
From the surrounding forest came sounds of wildlife at night. For a moment I was afraid of the dark and of being alone. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and my heart thumped. Hurriedly, I got into the car, locked it, drove to the top of the driveway, clicked the remote to open the garage door and activate the light inside, drove in and closed the garage door before getting out of the car.
Entering our home alone from the garage felt so different from when we were together or when I knew he would be there. It was nearly midnight and the house was eerily empty. I got ready and went to bed, leaving a light on for comfort. I had never stayed alone at night in our home before.
But, eight months later, we were safely together again, sitting in the car talking about his loss of excitement.
As we talked that day, he was healing well, physical therapy was going great, and yet there was no enthusiasm.
“As I’m thinking and talking about it,” he said, “I realize my fears are valid based on what I went through. I know my strength is improving and increasing with physical therapy. It’s just slower than I’d like,” He wondered what else could he be doing that would help speed up his recovery. He sounded genuinely curious.
“What would excite you?” I asked.
He thought for only a moment and then spontaneously, surprising both of us, said he wanted to hike Vernal and Nevada Falls in Yosemite National Park!
I was stunned. We had hiked the Mist Trail alongside Vernal and then on to Nevada Falls several times and thoroughly enjoyed it. But the last time was 22 years before. It was challenging, rated as strenuous, pretty much straight up, including all those granite steps alongside Vernal Falls through the drenching mist from the water as it plummeted some 300 feet. And as far as I knew, they hadn’t counted the interminable number of granite steps to the top of Nevada Falls.
“Are you serious?” I asked a little incredulously. “What about that excites you?” as I calmed down and got curious.
“I spent a lot of time in Yosemite with my family when I was a kid,” he said. “The Park is a magical place for me.”
“What’s magical about it?” I asked.
“The memories I have of camping up there in our big trailer and exploring and the beauty of nature. The whole experience brings such happy memories.” I could hear the beginning of excitement in his voice as possibilities began to take form.
We were still in the car, now parked in a lot. We turned toward one another, watching each other’s expressions.
“Really?” I asked. “When?”
“I think so,” he said, with the beginning of a smile. “I want a year to train and get ready. How about May of 2022 when I turn 86 and you’ll be 84?”
“I’m in!” I said, without hesitation. I didn’t really believe it would happen but seeing his excitement carried me along.
Several weeks later he told our family doctor about the idea, who surprised us with a full endorsement. “Go for it!”
As reality began to set in, I wondered what it would take to do it at our ages. Was it physically possible? What would it take to pull it off in our mid-80s—physically, mentally and emotionally? Talk about dynamic aging. We both were now genuinely curious about stepping into the unknown. I loved the idea! I was thrilled to hear the excitement in his voice as we began to plan for this new adventure over the coming weeks and months.
We told our four children and their families and some said they wanted to do it with us. Others were not available or not interested. An idea was born.
It was an idea that wouldn’t have been physically possible—I wouldn’t have even considered it—without years of hiking, a dedicated fitness practice, and then learning how to change some habits about how I physically move. Thanks to immersing myself in restorative exercise and nutritious movement practices in my 70s, taught by biomechanist and best-selling author Katy Bowman, it seemed like a definite possibility.
And even then, I wouldn’t have considered it without approaching the immensity of the idea by pushing, pulling, and pummeling my thinking through the portal of an intense life coach certification training I began when I was 80, created by my daughter and master coach, Cami McLaren.
It was just one more idea in a lifetime of ideas, emanating from an innate curiosity to constantly test my abilities—physically, mentally and emotionally—as well as my commitment to explore and discover who I am, always and at any age.
