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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Ammi Midstokke: Nature is a booby trap

By Ammi Midstokke The Spokesman-Review

I’ve never asked a psychic how or when I am going to die, but we can assume nature will be involved. If I’m lucky, it will be the predictable cycle of it: A worn-out heart that, having climbed all mountains, loved fiercely, and lost as one inevitably does, decides to stop tick-ticking while I’m in deep sleep, dreaming about being a backup singer for David Bowie.

Or maybe that latter part is what happens in my version of heaven. We’re wearing matching leotards.

Sometimes, though, when I’m out in nature thinking I can exhale a sigh of relief because there are no bad drivers texting at 70 mph, I am reminded that there is a reason we call it wild and wilderness.

There was the time my brown dog brought me a cougar, the times we’ve scared a bear in the bush or nearly collided with one on my bike. There was the shallow avalanche I floated down in Alaska, recognizing what an unstoppable force snow and gravity are. Of course, the Great Selkirk Pouncing Boulder incident, a number of cold nights and lost afternoons, and the usual drinking of dodgy water.

Statistically speaking, though, it’s mostly likely that I’ll trip in my backyard, render myself immovable, eat all my snacks immediately due to stress and boredom, and succumb to hypothermia before my family realizes I’m late for dinner. Probably because they are getting hungry.

Before search parties are organized, they’d check the family calendar to see which board meeting I was attending. Finding no useful information there, someone would search my GPS location, mostly to see if I was close to a grocery store and picking up dinner ingredients, only to discover the blue dot of my location pulsating in a pixelated field of green.

“Will you get ice cream on your way home?” is what the first text message would read, followed by several that explore dramatic variations of “Mom” such as “Moooommmmmmm” and possibly a clarification method: “Y/N/M?”

There is a memoir by the Nobel laureate Haruki Murakami in which he explores his thoughts while running. This is what he and I have in common: Neither of our running thoughts are prize-winning. His are less macabre, but on this day while I am running and thinking (possibly one-too-many simultaneous activities for me) I am also dodging the booby traps of seasonably inappropriate trail conditions.

First of all, there should be snow on the trails and there is not. The only thing harder on an aging body than a concrete race track is a frozen trail. Except this one is not totally frozen because the weather is suffering a sort of meteorological rapid cycle bipolar thing right now and it is somehow both hot and cold at once. Which means one part of the trail is ice covered with a deceptive dusting of dirt, and another part is shoe-sucking mud, while yet another part is dotted with frost heave traps large enough to swallow an entire midlife runner.

For entertainment purposes only, I will try to describe the kind of stride this requires so you can imagine why so many people in the forest feel compelled to ask me if I need help (of all sorts).

On the icy parts, I need a ballerina step, light on the toes except I have the grace of Fred Flintstone. Despite care, I inevitably begin slipping on a corner and suddenly I’m tippy-toeing in rapid fire (think: Fred, bowling) while my arms flail out for the nearest tree I will desperately clutch at. This resembles a kind of above-surface synchronized swimming, supported now by my four-limb-flailing dog who is no better as spotting ice patches or navigating them.

My windmilling arms cannot create enough draft to save me from the crash-bang-glad-I-ate-all-that-Christmas-fudge fall onto my rear end and my dog and I skid to a splayed-out stop, somehow still holding the trunk of a tree that now feels it’s been violated. I lie there like an abandoned curling stone waiting for someone to come sweep me along.

Staring up at the blue sky (which is not supposed to appear until April) I declare a new word: Drice, n. ice covered in a thin veil of dirt. I can do that because climate change compels us to create new words to describe new phenomena. Like how I need to wear mittens while running in a T-shirt. Or the sound of birdsong that has migrated a month early. Or the frost heave traps that open like portals into different dimensions.

One minute I was running through the woods, and the next I’m on a burning planet run by failed business tycoons!

After the pine-tree pirouette, I regain my stride for 10 yards before crossing a snow-covered bridge – the only snow-covered anything out here. Just beyond that is a sun-soaked mud pit to leap over, which sounds easy enough except one cannot get firm footing on snow and so it looks more like I’m auditioning for a 1990s music video with the wrong pants.

Now my shoes are weighted with about 8 ounces of clay each, which makes me hopeful for better traction come the next section of drice. Only I’m in a shady part and the trail is pockmarked with holes. They look innocent and small, harmless, really. Do not be fooled! You are running across the faux flooring of the universe and need a kind of high-kneed sprinter’s stride with full hip mobility. In this stretch, I look like I’m doing the grapevine from high school gym class after a few too many Bartles & Jaymes.

I decide to change my music to the “Indiana Jones” soundtrack and make a mental note to bring a whip with me for future runs. Don’t let anyone tell you that running is not a full-body workout. Or that nature is “calming.” But if you do dare go out in it, bring extra snacks in case you end up on a planet run by people who think cauliflower is a substitute for rice.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com