Squirrel's Tablerock

It starts as an ache without a cause, and soon it is a familiar soreness, an amount due for no service rendered. A twenty-something female squirrel, tired, seeks help. 

"Exercise cures the mind and strengthens the body!" professes an in-shape and happy Pelican. Squirrel tilts her head, her hand on her hip. It sounds like an easy solution to her woes. Almost too easy. The Pelican advises her to pick an activity she will enjoy and not hold back, "Make it your happy time and stay dedicated!"

Squirrel walks home wondering what activity will be her cure for the ache without a name. She tells her neighbor she needs ideas. Goat tells her about a beautiful place she could visit and count as her exercise routine. He loves it so very much that he starts drooling as he describes his favorite times on the mountain. His eyes cross as he confesses he must get a seasonal membership to access the trail. He thinks since the mountain is accessible to squirrels all year, she should take advantage and watch the sunset from the top. Squirrel climbs trees every day, so climbing a mountain sounds pleasant. The promised view of all the tree tops excites Squirrel.

"I will climb a mountain to feed my soul," she thinks. She remembers the wise Pelican who knew what she needed. Maybe she won't need to see the Pelican again. Hiking will cure her ache.

The next day she finds the trail beside the ruins of an old prison. She wonders what the Goat was thinking, sending her here, but then sees the all-you-can-eat buffet growing on the luscious rolling foothills. She pictures Goat mowing his way to the rocky top and taking a nap under the famous landmark sculpture. She knows the fixture; the metal cross lights up at night. It was a guiding light when she first moved to the valley. Fellow hikers arrive and wave as they choose their path and smile like a Labrador dog would in reaction to the news they now own a lake. 

A gentle breeze tickles Squirrel's ears; it is infectious. She picks the trail on the left and scurries up. The excitement of turning around to see the shrinking cars in the parking lot, the blueprint of the prison, and the downtown skyline guides her higher and higher. Halfway, she feels a strong breeze and is exhilarated to see the tops of trees she climbed last week, now the flutter like little balls of yarn far below. Other hikers have water bottles, proper shoes, and cameras. She notes what to bring next time, convinced she will be back for more. The last part of the hike is rocky, and trees guard the view of the sun. What waits through to the other side pulls her forward similar to how a carrot on a stick guides a rabbit. She jumps over the last rock to the top; the little cross she knows is a giant towering over her. The breeze is much stronger here, and so is the expansive view. Her eyes begin to well, but she isn't sure if that's from the dusty wind or the strokes of orange, pink, red, and blue spreading over the city lights below.

Near a bench, a goose gives out free water bottles. Squirrel's tail twitches in delight as she sips the gifted drink and watches the light bulbs of the cross illuminate above her. She will tell the Pelican she has found her happy place. The wind dries the sweat of victory, and the night lights brighten the darkening world below. Endorphins pulsate. The ache loses the fight for her attention as she sits above the city, squinting to see the airport lights. She wonders what the distance is to the faraway mountain ranges. A gopher with a headband says to her, "The first climb is the hardest. It will only get easier!" In a superman pose, he yells to the valley before him, "And so worth it!" 

Sunset after sunset, Squirrel races to the top in the cooling shade to beat the setting sun. Pelican asks why she isn't trying every day, but Squirrel argues that she needs rest. It is magical to perch over the city, but Squirrel still feels that ache, and the day is not long enough to recover her energy. Pelican says the discomfort will go away if she keeps moving. 

After the third weekend, Squirrel tells Pelican that the ache has worsened. Despite loving the exercise and watching the sunset on a mountain, she has been too tired to climb her tree and gather groceries. The Pelican raises the question- does Squirrel want to be happy or want to cry about everyday chores? 

Squirrel is disappointed in herself and pries herself off her branch the next day to climb to the happy place that will cure her now amplified ache. The morning brings painful joints and an excuse to stay in her tree. She smiles when she sees the rain clouds. She doesn't want to scar the path with her muddy paws. Those who use muddy trails leave behind an uneven and raw path with their tire and paw marks. Her sore legs and the ache in her back will recover with this extra day of rest. She hopes.

On Thursday, Squirrel is concerned that the ache is still there, but Pelican informs her it's because she hasn't been doing anything for days. Squirrel heads to the mountain carrying extra shame with a picnic and water. The days are getting longer, so she has more time to comment on new flowers on her way, but the climb takes every minute of her focus. She snaps a photo of the sky below, and the satisfaction helps her dismiss the fatigue clouding around her.

On the fifth Friday, she ties her sneakers tighter and drinks more bottles of water before she starts and during the hike. Tenacity and sweat saturate her fur. She doesn't notice when the group of first-time climbers passes her. Her eyes are glued to the pebbles in front of her that threaten to trip her exhausted toes. When this group laps her on their way down, they can't help themselves- they circle Squirrel and tell her the view at the top is "Amazing." The great-grandma beaver puffs her chest and places a paw on Squirrel's quivering shoulder, sinking Squirrel's morale deeper into the dirt. "If I can do it, YOU can do it! Do you KNOW how old I am?" Squirrel looks at the toothless beaver. "This should be easy for a youngin' like yourself! Stop looking at this view. It's better up there!"

Squirrel nods and takes a few steps up the trail to escape the champion beaver family. She collapses onto a boulder out of their view. She lacks the energy to speak. Doubt creeps in. Isn't this her happy place? Shouldn't the ache be better, the mountain smaller, her energy extended? How does Pelican know what will fix the ache he can't feel?

She rests her head on her balled-up windbreaker and looks at her expensive hiking boots shaped specifically for Rodents. Passing hikers don't bother her if she pretends to be on a phone call. After twenty minutes, she pulls herself away from the rock, takes a sip of water, massages more icy relief cream on her back and knees, tightens her shoelaces, and marches forward. She can see the fence where she needed a break last week. She slowly arrives, stretches her hamstrings on the log fence, and scampers over the rocky path to the top. Her feet keep losing the rhythm and stumble. She inspects the course concerned the mountain is dancing. The trail seems steeper today. But she thinks of the photo she can get from the top and pushes forward.

The following week Squirrel confides in the Pelican that she struggles to get to her happy place four times a week. Pelican suggests she commit to just three times a week. But each week, the mountain grows taller. The clock beats faster, and her muscles grow tighter. Other hikers start passing her on the way up and back down. More first-time climbers feel pity at the sight of Squirrel and sing, "You are almost there!" The last quarter of the path faces the coveted ridge. Faint cheers echo from above and burn into Squirrel's ears. She droops onto her extended resting rock spot. It is dark when she reaches the top, so she pivots to start the long descent.

The first night she doesn't get to the top, she holds her foot on the fence and blocks the sun from view. The boot has scuff marks over the toes, and dust has filled every crevice. She stretches her tight hamstrings into the cloudy valley below. She tries to reassure herself she is nearly there; it still counts. Tomorrow she will start earlier! 

A couple of days pass, and the annoying limp from that familiar ache lingers with intensity. She whispers into the phone to inform Pelican of the decline in progress. Pelican is quiet long enough for the baby Robins to learn how to fly, and then he barks into the phone, something Squirrel didn't know a Pelican could do. He says, "You have to use it or lose it. Keep moving. More exercise will relieve simple muscle soreness. No pain, no gain. Toughen up, little Rodent."

With laces, double bunny tied, she stares up from the parking lot. Her shoulders slouch forward. Attempts to straighten her spine send electricity through her rib cage and down the backs of her legs. The first quarter had always been fun, but with the trail doubling in length, she arrives still exhausted from the last attempt. Steep areas appear from trails she had considered flat. There is no time to count the sunflowers, say hi to blue butterflies, or check how small the prison guard tower shrinks with each bend in altitude. Hikers start after her and lap her on their way down before she can reach the halfway mark. The terrain becomes more unfamiliar and dares squirrel to check the patience of the sun.

She tries to make it to her next rest stop before more hikers pass, but a few turtles yell, "On your left!" forcing her to step aside and let them pass. She hates the narrow start of the trail where hikers must be single-file. She is humiliated by how she has become a roadblock holding up traffic. She balances with arms out to her sides and feet spread apart, turned perpendicular to the trail so that a string of Yorkie terriers can squeeze by. Her tail gets snagged in a bush. Later a kangaroo kicks dust in her mouth as he hops over her without warning. She is spun in a circle by the spring chickens pecking their way up. She starts to see only the backs of creatures who have passed her. A gazelle notices her struggle and asks if she is lost. He comments that this is not a place for squirrels to wander alone.

Later a snail passive-aggressively says to their partner while eyeing Squirrel, "Really, if you are just going to slow everyone up, why don't you smell the daisies off the mountain!” Squirrel hopes they don't mean this and are just projecting their pain at the sudden opportunity.

Once back on the trail, she pushes herself to the halfway mark. Every muscle in her body is straining; her lungs are squeaking as she crawls to the middle of the mountain. The rocks dance beneath her feet. Sweat drips as the dust settles on her not-so-bushy tail. 

She stares at the sun, her back to the mountain and all the happy-go-lucky hikers skipping to the top. Fatigue blossoms into bitterness.

Squirrel's hiking boots turn into roller skates, and loose rocks threaten to guide her to her knees. She looks up at the metal symbol crowning the top. The signature mark of “Tablerock." Tears join the sweat from her forehead. The days are getting longer, but the sun is setting on her. She watches the backs' of strangers as they disappear ahead, laughing without a care. They make it look effortless and dare to waste energy tossing a football and running ahead of each other, climbing the trail like cursive L's in a lullaby. 

The hamstring stretches aren't helping. Squirrel's legs have tensed as hard as the rock she wants to rest on. She feels like going to sleep. She thinks of the relief possible if she could lie down on the side of the dusty sagebrush-decorated ground.

"Just make it to the fence! A little more," she tells herself, but her legs shake on the slight slope. She wonders if her limbs are this unsteady going up, how will they support her going down?

She stops. 

Squirrel can feel bugs burrowing deep inside her legs, climbing her with more vigorous tenacity than she can muster to walk three steps. Her feet are numb, so she searches for rocks in her boots. 

There are no rocks, no bugs, just Squirrel and that ache. Removing her boots and socks, she finds temporary relief from the cotton that has morphed into a bed of broken glass under her toes.

She glares at the top and convinces herself that she doesn't care. "I could if I wanted to, but I don't want to. It is not worth it. My phone has enough sunset photos."

The final section glares back at her. Was it always this steep? Had the excitement and adrenaline at the beginning of the summer overpowered her awareness of the reality of the most strenuous section? As she stands, she takes inventory of her depleted energy and maximized pain. 

She crawls down from the halfway mark, limping sideways to stabilize her shaking limbs. She wraps her sweater around her waist to conceal the dreaded evidence her bladder has surrendered its gate to the mountain she had set out to conquer. Her sunglasses shield the rivers flowing down her face. The sun dances in mockery as she wobbles down the mountain.

She argues with herself whether or not she is a quitter. The goal was to be on the top, and she doesn't understand why she is not there.

The mountain has grown stronger and teased her eager spirit as the months passed. She rationalizes in defeat as she returns from the clouds she chased and accepts something is wrong. "It's not worth the view if I can't get down safely. This is not an ache exercise can fix."

Her spine is tight. She is unaware, but she is tethered not to the base of the mountain but inside her spine—a tether- a rogue section of tissue anchors her spinal cord. Stretching to reach the top only pulls the neurons tighter, blocking oxygen and causing a series of tiny strokes through her central nervous system. Pelican will continue to question her mind over matter to control the use of her legs as he flies South for her winter. 

Squirrel set out to climb a mountain to relieve an ache - a pain- called just an ache by her doctor-a Pelican, who claimed he knew her body better. She relentlessly searched for a way through it, to be above her weakness, but she was held down. Reaching for her goal pulled her against an internal anchor. She had other mountains waiting for her. Taller mountains across ranges and valleys of unexplored terrain held unexpected hospital beds and physical therapy clinics eager to brace, slice, medicate, see and screen, debate, and untether her. She will be released. Un-tied, set loose, then fused. Again. And again. 

Tablerock was just a hill, a gentle slope to the start of her journey. It hovers over her head to remind her of the lesson she learned from hiking with an ache. Even when it doesn't get easier, and she cries, bleeds, when her bones shift and curve- even when she can't put on her shoes unassisted- and wobbles from a wheelchair to a walker to a cane- she need not be a mountain set in her ways. There are flowers that grow in the rocks in the shadow of the popular trails. Even on Tablerock, in areas goats and sheep can't reach. These flowers withstand the wind and decorate the rugged terrain of an overlooked ditch below the famous mountain peak. If these flowers can still yearn to see the sun and reflect their beauty from jagged rocks, perhaps Squirrel can find a smile amongst the scars and medical bills and adjust the goal she set out to do before the setting sun by becoming the happy place she seeks, a pen and paintbrush her new guide.