Into the woods

Trail running has become a pleasant escape for me lately. I’ve really enjoyed finding new routes, exploring old ones, and taking Remy on all the adventures. He’s turned into quite the trail dog and can hold his own for 15 miles, that’s the furthest we’ve gone anyway. I carry lots of water and we both enjoy snacking on animal crackers to fuel our carb needs.

I also like to think he’d defend me in my hour of need. This is categorically untrue. He is a total wimp. But he has a big scary bark, that counts for something. Bears are one of my biggest fears, theoretically he’d chase one away but I actually think he’d get mauled and I’d end up hiking out of the woods carrying a 50 lb sack of dog.

Turns out, Remy might be my biggest threat in the woods. On a casual 5 mile jog up a new-to-me mountain I was seeing a lot of bear signs. Big flipped rocks and logs, scratches down the trunks of trees, shuffled up leaves and scat. This was going to be Remy’s shining moment and I was on high alert. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my hand and right-side booty. I saw some projectiles strafe in and out of my field of vision. Hornets. Remy had run right across a hornets nest, got them all stirred up, and now I was paying the consequences.

I panicked. Naturally. When you’re stung consecutively you can’t help picture yourself covered in stings, swollen, and dying on top of a mountain. I put on a burst of speed to escape the nest but please remember the flipped over rocks and logs.

I immediately tripped, rolled my ankle, and went down. I rolled for a while, mostly because of the steep grade but also to get any lingering hornets away. My ankle hurt so bad; it couldn’t bear weight. I still had 2.5 miles to go, no point in turning back, I had to press on.

It took me about three hours to complete that 5 mile loop. You would think Hubs would check in at some point after the 1.5 hour mark, but he did not. I finally made it back to the truck (I got lost twice and had to bushwack through some thick brush) and pointed towards home. 5 minutes into the drive I looked down and saw little black specks all over my thighs, shirt, shorts. I brushed them off, assumed they were dirt and returned my eyes to the road. I glanced down again. They were still there and they were MOVING. I pulled to the side of the road, leaped out, and started peeling off clothes. There is no modesty when you are being swarmed for the second time in a day. Turned out I stopped at a trail head and another car pulled in to hike. I was hopping up and down, using my shirt to scrape at my legs, while simultaneously spraying an entire can of bug spray over my entire body and she said to me, “my dog is going to bark at you because he gets nervous around strangers, but he’s friendly, don’t worry.”

I don’t know if you see what’s happening here, lady, but A of all your dog should definitely bark at me, I look like a maniac, and B of all, your dog barking at me is the least of my concerns.

I responded, “I’m dealing with a bit of a bug situation here, he can do what he wants.”

I thought they were seed ticks. I wish they were seed ticks. They were actually chiggers. That is a unique type of torture; a mix of psychological and delayed physical. By the time we got home I was ready to shave my head. I dragged Remy into the shower and we hosed everything down. I still didn’t know what the creatures were, but two days later I had my answer. I was covered in tiny little bumps, chigger bites. They were focused around the openings of my clothes. I had a line around my waist, perfectly dotted circles around mid-thigh, another circle at the top of my high socks; they looked like tribal tattoos except less cool and more ouchy. They lasted for two weeks at least, and the level of itch is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I recently had poison ivy and can confirm if you don’t scratch, it’s bearable. These just itched all the time. Like a fiery burning rage.

That was a pretty bad day. I was given some solid advice: avoid the woods, they’re trying to kill you.

In an effort to do that, this week I took Remy for a run at a track around a baseball complex. It’s in a neighborhood setting, lots of lights, mostly fields, very little woods to be seen. This was safe. This was circles in a field on a paved path.

He got sprayed by a skunk. Straight in the face. I didn’t realize it until I drove him home in my car.

I left him outside and asked Hubs to take a whiff and let me know if my guess was correct. He said, “I don’t even need to go outside, I can tell you from here it’s a yes.”

I texted my family for advice and we all agreed the best plan was buy a new car and Remy becomes an outside dog for the rest of his life.

Three baths later, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap is the magic potion. One of my friends stopped by and I greeted her with, “I’m so glad to see you, please come smell my dog and describe it to me.”

She did. That’s a good friend. “Smells like regular wet dog?”

“Hallelujah! I’ve never been so glad to hear my dog stinks like wet!”

What I love most of all about the woods is the quiet and the views, here are a few of my favorites from the last three months.

These pictures are from my last long run, the trailhead sign left a lot to be desired directionally, and that bearing tree doesn’t look like it’s served much purpose since its creation. Those are my socks. Lastly, I had to coordinate with Hubs to come pick me up and there was no service, shocking. But you can use satellites! I did have to stand in the parking lot waiting for one to come overhead and then you have to point your phone at it and swivel around in a circle to stay tracked…now that I’m typing this I realize I spend a lot of time in parking lots doing circles.

The woods are good. They bring a lot of peace. I find myself looking forward to my trail runs the night before. It’s fun to explore, to carry your own water and food, like help isn’t just a phone call away. My last trail I ran the entire length of a mountain ridge. It was awesome. I started at the North end, ascended to the ridge, ran 15 miles to the South end, descended to a road. I can see that mountain from my front yard. This isn’t my picture but that’s the ridge line of the mountain.