I pretended to ignore her. We were three days into a backcountry trek that had thus far involved limited trail, several unanticipated class-5 climbs with loaded packs, and 12-hour shifts of non-stop power-housing it through the mountains. Both of us were bleeding from every limb, sporting some fashionable new tan lines, covered with mosquito bites, and had ridden the adrenaline roller coaster more than a few times. 

If that wasn’t badass, then I really needed to recalibrate my measurements.  

Let me just add, Shannon is over 50, and I’m still flirting with fertility and a decade younger. Also, I’m arguably a badass. This season, I have run and rucked around and over mountains ad infinitum and have achieved the kind of fitness level that justifies a fair amount of donut eating. What we were doing: booking it through forehead-high infinite walls of alder brush on a steep slope at breakneck pace between episodes of exposed climbs up granite peaks. What I was not doing: holding her hand.  

I don’t know when age becomes the demon we all try to outrun, but I do know that it is inescapable. Although, as far as I could tell, Shannon was outrunning it just fine, and I hope to grow up to be like her—minus the tragedy of her inability to see just where her body had taken her that day and every day for the last five decades. 

There is a phenomenon that seems to occur during the aging process wherein we constantly compare ourselves with the blip of time in which we were perceived to be “our best selves” according to cultivated and potentially dysmorphic societal standards. In this dangerous exercise we zero in on a single quality (like our mile time or pant size) and measure our current worth based on this marker alone.  

Obviously, this is bullshit.  

First of all, we are the sum of our parts, our experiences, the lessons we’ve learned along the way, and the snacks we’re willing to share. Secondly, we are reflective of the myriad of things happening at us in this crazy world and thus dynamic, ever changing. Unless you’ve discovered a fountain of youth, you will never be stagnant in anything, least of all a level of badassery assigned to a specific sport, movement, or measurement.  

This kind of thinking is what convinces us we are on an inevitable decline, and it is a lie we need to stop telling ourselves. It diminishes our joy in the moment, and it fails to honor the other qualities that make us formidable outdoor partners, friends, athletes, and guides.  

Shannon, at 50-something, brought innumerable beneficial qualities to our excursion. One of them was her capacity to estimate risk and determine her emotional and physical ability to approach it. That is something that comes with wisdom and time (and maybe a few whippers). Her competence in the outdoors, from her ability to pace herself, cheer away bears, communicate effectively, ensure safety, and not panic when we found ourselves in harrowing situations is what made her badass—not the fact that she kept up (though this was also impressive).  

Also, it was upon her recommendation that I schlepped a pair of flip-flops through the mountains for the luxury of “camp shoes,” and for this I was grateful every night and every morning – as if wearing them put me in an alpine lakeshore spa. Where one drains their own blisters with an oversized safety pin, of course. 

To devalue ourselves and what we offer as aging outdoorspeople and humans is also to send a devastating (and untrue) message to those younger than us: It’s all downhill from here. And I don’t know about you, but I’m still planning on climbing a lot of uphills for years to come.   

Originally published in the July-August 2020 issue.

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“Do I dare ask what you are buying on the internet today?” asked my husband.

We’ve been together for a while now, so he ought to know that the most exciting time of my shopping year is when companies start releasing their 2021 planners.

I resist buying an annual planner until it is absolutely unavoidable. If I buy it too early, my eager optimism about the next year has me scheduling so many backpacking trips and races and adventures that by January I’m already telling people I’m too busy until August.

If something doesn’t make it into the planner, then it doesn’t happen.

And if it is in my planner, it always looks like a delightful engagement, even if it’s a root canal. Dentistry is always listed four shades of elegant turquoises, a variety of floral designs, and fancy calligraphy writing. It might as well be a wedding invitation. In fact, I’ve taken to making my chore lists look like works of art. Which is why I rarely actually get to doing the chores.

Planning is about setting intention and avoiding the insidious sprawl of life to take over. I would hate to be associated with such a word, but it’s rather “efficient.” Of all the things I hate to waste (coffee, paper), time is the most important.

Early winter is incubatory period for my plans of the upcoming year. I’ve just begun to forget the pain and injuries from last year’s training load or misadventure in the mountains, and I can reflect on all the mistakes from a distance just far enough to not be overwhelmed with guilt and shame.

There actually are a number of studies that link the writing-down-of-goals with improved likelihood of achieving those goals. I like to lay out the entire new human I am going to become, preferably on Jan. 1, in a color-coded timeline of sanguine expectations.

I usually throw a lofty goal or two in there (lose weight, get out of debt) and then some freebies (go to a new place, take more naps) so when I look back, I can have a sense of achievement. By the end of the year, I’m invariably chuffed at how much I actually accomplished. I almost always meet my nap goal.

Now, my planners are historical references for the whole family. We look back in my notes and see when we started the first fire of the season, what we did on our vacation, and how many times I actually did make it to the gym. They’ve become an encyclopedia of where I have been and where I am going—mostly outside.

I suppose that is my real attraction to them: having a sense of direction, however naïve. In a world of unknowns and influences that are out of my control, opening my planner gives me a sense of calm stability—as if I still determine my own fate or something. It’s like a roadmap of self-care, coffee dates, long runs, and adventures that keep me grounded. Occasionally, I even make time for work in there.

Ammi Midstokke is a nutritionist and author living in North Idaho. She owns several hundred colored pencils but can never find a sharpener. Sadly, this is her last “The Human Adventure” column but, we hope, not her last appearance in the pages of Out There.

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We were winding our way through the cloud-saturated trees for hours. Bright tufts of moss dripped off gnarled branches, leaving patches of iridescent green carpet as soft landing for our rain-soaked feet.  

Other terms used during the event include, but were not limited to: grind, head down, keep going, miserable, hustle. It’s probably pretty accurate to describe the crux of any racing event as a miserable hustle. 

I am not quite certain why the miserable hustle calls to me again and again. Perhaps suffering gives us purpose and then later acts as a badge of honor. 

I explained to my companion that no matter what I do—climb mountains, chop firewood, run 50 damn miles with a 30-pound pack—it never seems to really count until I have some kind of story of enduring agony, preferably where limb or life or both were at risk.  

What the hell is that about?  

I thought I was pretty good at embracing the suck, but Geoff takes it to a level of expertise I’ve never witnessed. He doesn’t stop at aid stations and prefers to drink his calories (the same exact thing for twenty hours), although he reported needing a sock change once in the past. I basically race for the ham sandwiches and guiltless cookies. I thought suffering was just the price I paid.

Years ago, when the people who determine such things told me I had PTSD, some of that need to suffer took a new context. Survival and resilience were like a worn in pair of jeans. I knew how to move in them. I kept returning to them, as if I had to prove something to myself. No amount of suffer would break me. 

From time to time, Mother Nature, a Big Rock, or a Broken Heart would put me back in my place. Eventually it was love that softened me and that miserable hustle became just a tiny part of a bigger truth—one of bearing witness, holding space, and a strange kind of introspection that only hours of trail trodding can promise. 

“You might even have a good time,” I threatened Geoff as I list off the smorgasbord of pit-stop joys I had waiting for me: potato chips, caffeinated nut butter (the angel who invented this deserves a Nobel Prize), my friend Angie held a hot thermos of bone broth, dry socks, and a deep sense of appreciation. Around mile 31, Geoff reported “enjoying” himself. I wrote it in my race log and attributed it to the handful of corn chips he’d just shoved in his face. 

These journeys have become pilgrimages of gratitude. What used to be a grimace is now a grin. What used to feel like solitary confinement is now a testament of friendship and camaraderie and the symbolism of how our lives touch each other. Geoff carried the hat of Emory Corwine, a young man who left too soon. I wore the t-shirt of a friend who has to live on chemotherapy Slurpies for a while and couldn’t run with us. Somewhere along this race we call life, it becomes less about Us and more about Them. 

When Geoff and I stumbled across our finish line, it was not the blister war wounds that we touted or the groans of our creaky knees. We didn’t need misery to give us purpose or proof. We had laughed, shared histories and dreams, food and pee breaks, fears and joys, and dedicated miles and some pretty awful cadence singing to those who inspired us.  

Maybe it was the fact that we were having fun that propelled us to a record finish, although I’d wager the cookies played an important role. We came in before dark, eyes bright and smiles wide. We didn’t go because we had something to prove. We went because we had something to give.

Extended photo caption: Ammi and Geoff completed the 50 miles in 14 hours and 35 minutes. Ammi was the first female finisher that year, breaking the old record by more than 2 hours.

Ammi Midstokke is a nutritionist and author living in North Idaho. This story is of the Emory Corwine Memorial Ruck—a man she and Geoff never met but who continues to touch the lives of strangers from the Great Beyond.  

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“If you grab some groceries at the store, I’ll make dinner.” That’s my voice, sounding super chirpy and grateful that I don’t have to make a list, figure out what ingredients I need for a particular recipe, and wander aisles to find them. You see, I believe I can make a meal out of just about anything. 

Charlie, my person, likes to challenge this. He comes home with a basket as follows: 

• 2 pounds of barbecue pulled pork 
• 2 pounds of ground beef 
• 3 beets 
• 1 bunch cilantro 

“Were you craving these things or did you see a recipe you wanted me to try?” I naively asked. Had he not brought me some chocolate, the discussion may have digressed from there.  

 I believe when Charlie is dealing (groceries), the objective of the game is to see how few ingredients I can use to make something edible. It is exactly the opposite if I ask him to make dinner. That conversation goes like this: 

“Hey honey, I have all the ingredients for dinner, but I’m super busy writing a story about that time you bought beets. Can you throw the meal together? It’s Chicken Jalfrezi on a bed of saffron rice with blanched almonds—only you’ll have to blanch them because they were out at the store.” 

“Who is Blanche?” 

“The almonds.” 

“I thought we were having chicken.” 

“And use the coriander seeds—the mortar and pestle are on the sill.”  

The objective here is that I expose my future husband to as many exotic herbs, spices, kitchen tools, methods, and flavor combinations as possible. Mostly because I think it’s super hot when I see him walk out of the pantry with a food processor in his arms.  

I believe he’s onto me though, because he’s started offering to shop and cook a meal. He has discovered the secret ingredient to making anything amazing: butter.  

Because he’s marrying a nutritionist, he knows there must be some sort of vegetable presented. I’ll hover around the kitchen or subtly pass through, as though I’m on some alternative errand, just to have a peek at what vegetable is being prepared. When I see a spread of asparagus on a sheet, my blood pressure drops about fifteen points. Apparently I have some foundational belief that if I skip vegetables in a single meal, I’m just a diabetic cardiac event waiting to happen.  

By the time the meal is served, it’s too late for me to ask if the tri-tip was roasted in butter and how many cubes went on top of the asparagus. Because butter is a lubricant and the food is sliding so smoothly, so deliciously, into my gullet, I don’t even want to stop eating long enough to talk about how many calories my vegetable side actually contains. Instead, I clean my plate and use my fork to pick up little pieces of butter-soaked garlic from the sheet.  

At this rate, he’s going to win every time.  

Ammi Midstokke is a nutritionist and author living in North Idaho, where her solar-powered, straw bale cabin keeps her log-peeling and wood-chopping skills honed. Last month she wrote about the black hole of her ceaseless appetite for mostly cookies and cake. 

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To train for a 100-mile race, you basically have to give up gainful employment, manage your household by leaving to-do notes behind (Feed cats, take shower, love you, Mom), and spending your savings on all things food. In fact, that’s what my grocery list looks like these days: Buy All The Food. Also: energy bars, chews, bites, electrolytes, extra magnesium, Tiger Balm, turmeric.  

Some naive supporters say cute things like “Oh my gosh, you’re going to lose weight” which both suggests I need to, and that they obviously know absolutely nothing about the insatiable vortex of my runner’s stomach. At this point, I’m concerned I’m contributing to the world hunger problem just by hoarding all the brown rice in my own kitchen. 

Just last week I was running with someone who watched me shove some kind of bar down my pie hole about 4 miles in. “You running longer today?” She asked. “No, I just have to eat in 40 minute intervals from about the time I wake up until I go to sleep.”  

In my sleep, I eat in four-hour intervals. I’ll wake up at 2 a.m. with my stomach grumbling and decide that only a bowl of oatmeal is going to put me back to sleep. It works better if I put peanut butter and maple syrup on it, too. 

Interestingly enough, the science supports my anecdotal evidence that a ridiculous amount of cardio does not necessarily support weight loss. Because cardio work makes you hungry but doesn’t typically increase the metabolism outside of the actual exercise time. In fact, I read one very discouraging study that suggested runners get more efficient and can slow down their metabolic activity. This is where the science supports weight lifting as a more effective means of weight loss (at least of adipose tissue).  

I asked a coach about it, frustrated by the injustice of why my scale doesn’t budge despite the amount of hours I slog through the snow and mud. He asked me some important questions, like, “Do you have energy for your runs? Are you increasing your performance? Do you feel good?” Yes, yes, yes—but I am an American consumer of media and none of that matters if I can’t fit my squatty Norwegian legs into hot pants!  

One day, the scientist in me ran an experiment and tried to restrict calories to something like the recommended daily amount plus half of what I’d burned during a run—somewhere around 2,300 total for the day. By mid afternoon, I was ready to go chew the bark off trees with the deer. The next day, yoga stretches seemed an impossible effort. The experiment ended with two fried eggs on a bowl of rice with kale and green chili salsa and half an avocado and a sigh of relief from my whole body (and family).  

Most of us battle with the scale, as if it has some magical ability to assess our worth or the efficacy of everything else we’re doing. It is just a single data point that may not even apply to our goals. In which case, we ought not stand on the thing because it takes away from our joy. Rather, we should ask ourselves if we can measure our progress elsewhere: Did we fuel appropriately? Get our vegetables and fruits for the day? Do our pants still fit? Is our training awesome? As for me, I’m going to stop negating my wins with a single arbitrary number and set out a bowl for my midnight slumber snacks. They make those morning miles all that much better.  

Ammi Midstokke is a nutritionist and author living in North Idaho. She wrote about relating to other humans in the “Human Adventure” column for the March 2020 issue.

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Some of those bonds we get born into and then spend the rest of our lives trying to understand the dysfunction—but that dysfunction usually doesn’t stop us from relating to them. Research also suggests we’re particularly compelled to bond with people who offer sex or good foot massages, tolerating otherwise unacceptable behaviors (such as drinking decaf coffee) so as not to break the bond. And then there are those we want to go play with: friends, adventure buddies, running partners, and training companions. Most of us are surrounded by humans with whom we’re trying to relate. 

Interestingly enough and despite plenty of opportunity, we’re not always really great at relating to the humans in our lives. Sometimes it’s because we’re too busy guarding our bacon, but mostly it’s because we don’t know what the hell is going on with us or anyone else. Interactions with my future spouse often go like this: 

“Put the pizza on a tray and set the oven to 350 degrees.”  

He reads the instructions on the box, sets the oven to 375. We spend the next 40 minutes arguing about trust, how I’m not a frozen pizza chef, and things like “feeling heard.” There’s a lot of he said, she said, some petty use of semantics, and a fair bit of passive-aggressive blame. And we particularly love everything to be real black or real white as we seek that righteous feeling of being right.  

This is what those therapists refer to as “content.” It’s not so useful. In fact, it’s often a distraction from the core issue of “meeting the need.” This matters when you’re lost in the mountains with your adventure buddy, emotions are high, there is only one pouch of salmon jerky left, a bear has been tracking you for miles (whose idea was the salmon jerky anyway?), and suddenly you need to negotiate a plan that you are both totally invested in.  

While swear words are useful here, the ability to articulate actual feelings and needs seems to be most conducive to the practice of empathy and finding a solution. While my friend is telling me how afraid she is of steep, exposed granite, I can express my fear of not being able to outrun a hungry bear. In the very least, as we plummet or get mauled to death, we’ll really be able to empathize with each other—totally bonding. 

Being known for schlepping the optimistic and unaware into the mountains, the practices of asking, listening, and articulating have been essential to both wilderness survival and the preservation of my friendships. Whether we’re heading out for a bike ride with a group, negotiating an after-adventure beer, or determining who should carry the jerky, offering a bit of our vulnerability and speaking our truths can make all the difference in the experiences we share. 

As for me, I’ve begun prefacing outings with, “How would you feel about the potential of going somewhere we totally did not intend and being out for far longer than expected?” Thankfully, my people seem to know me well enough by now to pack their bivy sacks, an extra sleeve of cookies, and an open mind. 

Editors’ Note: The Human Adventure is a new column from the warm and irreverent voice of Ammi Midstokke. It chronicles her explorations of the natural world and the human experience.  

Ammi Midstokke is a nutritionist and author living in North Idaho. In the Jan-Feb. 2020 issue she wrote about the importance of supporting our mental health.  

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“You might want to see someone about that,” they said. They may have been a string of ex-boyfriends or friends who had recalled that last year I lived on Hershey’s Kisses for the entire month of February. “Yes, I should see a massage therapist,” I said, patting myself on the back for my commitment to self-care. 

But I didn’t need my brain or heart massaged. I needed to understand them better. Going to a therapist or counselor might suggest that I didn’t have all my shit together, and that was just preposterous. I knew lots of adults who survived on chocolate and cried during coffee commercials. 

I looked at all the self-care I had dialed in: I saw the doctor for my preventative care, I went to the dentist to keep my teeth healthy, I saw a massage therapist when my limbs got wonky, I trained for races with a coach, but when my mind needed a tune up, I never thought to seek the mind experts or even develop self-care around the state of my mental health. Now, I hand out coupons for good therapy as birthday gifts.

So here we are, riding the dopamine waves of the holidays: Sugar, alcohol, gifts, family, good food, surprises! Weeeeeeee!!! Now we’re burning through serotonin (the calming and content hormone) and washing ashore on the beach of Seasonal Affective Disorder. We’ll consider this our public service announcement to take care of your mental health. And here’s how:

• Don’t be reluctant to seek out good counsel by qualified professionals. Got something you’re struggling to work through? Need a mindfulness tune up? Have someone help you understand how your brain works. It’s not only a lesson in self-compassion but a healthy way to create positive change in your life.
• Catch up on sleep and be okay with that. It’s winter. Think of the comfort of hibernation. Slow your roll. Stay home. Go to bed early. It’s probably the kindest thing you can do for yourself.
• Take care of your gut health. About 80 to 90 percent of our serotonin is made and stored in our gastrointestinal tract. Eat probiotic foods (or take probiotics), lots of vegetable fibers, and go easy on the sugars and booze. This might be the best reason to join some 30-day health challenge.
• Spend intentional time with people who make you feel good doing things that make you feel good. The most beneficial mental health thing I do every week is a secret elitist run with my two best friends where we word vomit, cry, share highs and lows, plan weddings, and run through the mountains all at the same time. It’s cheaper than therapy and is usually followed with coffee.

Sometimes, our brains just need a little space and a little care. Treat yours like you would treat any other part of your body or piece of equipment in your house. Check in on it occasionally, make sure it’s working right (-ish, we don’t want to be over-achievers), and don’t be afraid of therapists. They are mechanics for your mind, and I haven’t had one shrink anything yet.

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