Flying Over the Sierras

I was flying over the Sierras toward a conference in Boston when I had one of those revelations that make one reassess one’s life.

Looking down at that snowed-in mountain landscape, I wanted to be there. During that first year in California, I’d made it into the “foothills” – up to 10,000 feet – but I hadn’t really been into those mountains. The trails were too long, the passes too high.

I’d always wanted to walk the whole Pacific Crest Trail, Mexico to Canada. I’d hiked little segments – five days here, three days there – but a part of me still wanted to go the whole 2,650 miles. But I was fifty-five, short and round and usually the slowest person on the trail. People who passed me going up were often surprised, going down, to find me still plodding up the hill. Probably I wouldn’t become miraculously fit within the next few years. Maybe hiking the whole Crest Trail wasn’t really very realistic.

And then, as one does on long cross-country flights, I thought about other dreams. Would I ever earn a PhD? My dad had a PhD; my mom earned her Master’s when I was a teen. My own MA came at fifty, and then I faced a choice: either go for a PhD, or find a job before it was time to retire. I went for the money. At fifty-four, I became a full-time English teacher at a community college in California. If I want full retirement benefits, I’ll have to work till I’m eighty-four. Am I likely to try for a PhD? Probably not. And anyway, I don’t really need one.

But if mega-hikes and a PhD were out of the question, there were other dreams. I’d always seen myself as a writer. And I’d always written, but I hadn’t produced the Great American Novel. Still, writers mature with age. Maybe writing was the way to go.

It’s interesting that in this analysis, I didn’t ponder teaching. Maybe that’s because I already taught. Or maybe it’s that teaching was never my life-long goal; I came to it almost by accident. And though teaching college is the most rewarding work I’ve ever done, a part of me still demands more.

So, writing it would be, I concluded, as the snow gave way to desert below the plane. And for the rest of the trip, I planned my career as a writer.

But it hasn’t quite worked out that way. I write, but only in fits and spurts. When the weekend comes, I grade papers… or go to the mountains. I’m unlikely to hike the whole Crest Trail, but I still want to reach those High Sierra lakes. While hiking – and even while teaching – I think about writing. But it’s hard to write when you aren’t actually facing a computer. And many days, I’d rather go for a hike.