Ammi Midstokke: The wise women of cross country skiing

I should have known I’d find them in the trees on their skis, an hour away from the rest of humanity. It was like I had suddenly landed in a flock of wise women or witches clad in Gore-Tex and Swix, swish-swishing their way through the forest. All was quiet beyond the soft rush of Priest River, Idaho, and, of course, the hen clucking of seven women with no particular agenda but nine separate, simultaneous conversations.

Women do not need an agenda to get the groceries, champion their careers, rear the children, learn to ski, or save the world. It’s just what we do. And honestly, society, it would be a little easier if you could stop asking us to schedule Botox and brow waxes in the middle of all that.

As it happened, I was the youngest in the group by somewhere between eight and 18 years, maybe. And I had questions. Because recently one morning I woke up and was hit with the hormonal sledge hammer of perimenopause and the realization that I’m going to be an empty nester in a matter of months. I’ve been led to believe that once a woman has lost fertility and is done raising her children, her market value plummets to Home Network Shopping purchases and needlework mastery. Oh, and getting really good at frosting holiday cookies.

Considering I have none of those skills, I may need to find a country that has petting zoos full of geriatrics. I think the Netherlands has them. It’s how they grow so many tulips.

This group of women seemed unscathed by the horrors of menopause and utterly uninterested in what society thought about them anyway. They did pack a lot of food, which is perhaps my favorite part of outdoorsing with women. I leave my food in the car and just accept offers for whatever is thrust upon me: the other half of several sandwiches, a variety of nut varieties, some dried fruit, apples. It was like being at a rave in my 20s, only I was being plied with organic snacks instead of narcotics.

The day I woke up and realized my ovaries had probably shriveled up was as significant to me as the Before Christ/After Christ timeline is to humanity. One day I was scooting along like a woman in her prime and the next I was in the ER thinking I had an aneurysm and reminding my husband to not read my journals. (No grieving husband needs to know how often his wife complained about his lack or excess of salt in cooking.)

No one told me this would happen, though there have been whisperings amongst the professionals who have largely discounted our bizarre symptoms and the onset of lunacy as the natural, expected decline of a woman. My response to that is not fit for print.

Thus I was left to find some pioneers, in health care and womanhood – which does not actually end, even when our hormones launch their own biological agenda. Mine seemed to be on a retribution crusade for all the times I demanded my adrenals overperform.

So basically, the last 45 years.

It’s hard to explain the experience, but let me just say this: Has anyone ever asked if the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was actually just based on a perimenopausal woman?

First, I found a practitioner who did the math. Now I use topical hormones like they are free moisturizer at an all-day spa or I just robbed a hotel bathroom. I can remember my own name and address again. Also, I do not generally want to murder people for their cake, so that’s good, I guess.

Then I needed to find some women to answer some questions for me. The kind you don’t even really have to ask to understand the answers.

Like: Who are we when we are not our children’s mothers? When is it a good time to see if we still like our partners? What will we do with ourselves?

Less laundry. More skiing. And remembering who we were before parenthood (minus the illicit drugs, perhaps). We’ll have the capacity to grab a gaggle of ladies and tromp through the woods covering ground while we cover topics that matter to us, like how we can better serve our communities and what makes a good sourdough.

Maybe the fashion magazines and age-defying industries don’t know, but those are both essential to the functioning of society.

In a way, this is a thank-you note to the women who have led the way, the men who have supported them, and any empathetic spirit on the spectrum between the two. It is a reminder that surrounding ourselves with those older and wiser, and younger and wilder, can bring more than understanding: It also offers a sense of place on this timeline of life. And if we’re lucky, we’ll get to explore all of them – let’s hope on skis or in the trees or both.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com