Nearly every weekend over the winter months, I go snowshoeing. It’s one of my favorite cold weather activities. Not only am I getting outside, It is a great workout. The level of stress and exertion can be tailored to exactly what your body can handle on that day. Some days I have the ability to take on difficult routes and dramatic elevation changes. Other days, I need to stay on a mostly flat incline and move at a glacial pace. One of my favorit1e things about snowshoeing is the soft steps. My feet, usually stubs of searing pain being twisted into balls of unusable flesh, find no resistance in snow. My joints aren’t jarred. My hyper-sensitive nerves aren’t jostled. The silence of the mountains brings peace to my migraines. Everything around you is stunningly beautiful. It’s just a down right enjoyable experience.
Of course, doing any athletic activity with chronic illnesses, means pushing yourself. It also means, you really need to know your limits and triggers. Recently, I found myself hitting a wall I had been able to ignore for about 7 years. You know those ouches and nopes you experience and then you just lightly hold it in the back of your mind like a splinter? Then something happens years later and that splinter exposes itself in the most painful way.
On this adventure, as soon as I had clamped my shoes on and began taking small steps upwards, I knew something was off. At first, I thought I was just over dressed. After all, it was exceptionally sunny on the mountain and any uphill travel is a real workout. So I took a breather, peeled off a layer and started walking. I needed to stop again after just a few steps. I was sucking wind and feeling a stitch in my side. Unusual, but I was at a high elevation and hadn’t been conditioned to the hike yet. A few more steps, another stop. I started feeling nauseous and light headed. Something was definitely wrong. I let my snowshoeing partner know how I was feeling but I wanted to keep going. So, I kept walking. Slowly uphill, stopping frequently. Wavering between nausea, dizziness, and the frustrating vision of tunneling blackness… I kept climbing until I knew I had to stop. I was about an hour and 700 feet (around 200 meters) in additional elevation away from the goal peak.
I’ve learned not to be shy or ashamed of stopping an athletic endeavor short of my goal. I don’t want to be so broken by achieving one thing that I cannot function for the following week. But, when I am out in the world with other people, I still have an immense feeling of guilt for not being able to hit the group achievement button. It is the worst when there’s only one other person. When you say “Go ahead, I’ll wait here” or “I’m going to head back” the partner, understandably, isn’t sure what they should do. Navigating that interaction is always awkward, but I’m a big fan of honesty and pumping up the other person so they can finish the adventure.
Reaching the place where I said that I needed to stop, the person I was hiking with went along ahead and I started to climb back down. Climbing down is always the easiest part, but there is still some exertion and technique involved, especially if the terrain is steep. At this point, I was still quite dizzy and finding myself short of breath, but my nausea had subsided and I was able to take my time to enjoy the scenery. A short unplanned excursion to the right of my intended path (It was a quick lesson in the cardinal rule of don’t follow tracks without knowing where they lead) and about an hour later, I was down the mountain making my way to our vehicle.
Taking off my gear, I realized it had been stupid and selfish of me to continue up the mountain after that first bout with dizziness. I could have passed out on the hill, or worse yet, tumbled down into dangerous terrain. My climbing partner would have been traumatized. I would have used up safety resources. I could have caused real harm to myself and others. By the time I sat down to have a quick snack and wait for my partner, I knew that I had been having an exercise-induced asthma attack. My breathing was still stressed and wheezy. I had a cough that I couldn’t shake. My migraine was building. It had been so long since I had an attack like this. Even when the possibility of it crept into my head during the episode, I pushed it away. The conditions were super cold, dry, thin air. I was exerting myself with an immediate elevation gain. The odds were stacked against me and I didn’t listen.
I’m incredibly thankful that I didn’t get hurt and my only repercussion was a day full of some uncomfortable lung issues. It’s a stark reminder that I need to stick within my boundaries and truly listen to my body. I don’t get the luxury of pushing myself the way athletes and people with unbroken bodies get to on a daily basis. I have to play by the rules my shell can handle. Even if it’s mentally frustrating and makes me feel like an invalid. Sometimes that truth smacks me in the face.
Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 11-007, Box 013, Image No. MNH-2945