SOME BIG STEPS.

For the first time since my surgery, I did something other than Pilates, the elliptical or the treadmill - I did a three-mile hike at Mt. Charleston on a trail called Mary Jane Falls with my friend, Mike, and the Bolted Bionic Dogs, Diesel and Greta. This was a big deal for many reasons: it was the first time I had participated in activity not related to physical therapy, and it was the first time that both dogs had participated in any major activity since their cancer surgeries and chemotherapies.

So here we were, me and the dogs, all of us survivors of one surgery or another in the last eight months, ready to take on a three-mile hike with several inclining switchbacks. I don't know about the dogs, but I was nervous - what if I couldn't finish? What if one of them couldn't finish? What if my back started hurting? Will I really ever be able to do activities like this again?

We started off on the incline and within ten minutes my hamstrings were screaming. Greta was galloping all over the trail, so excited to be able to explore and search for birds. Diesel stayed close to Mike and me, the typical loyal Boxer that likes to stay near his people. The switchbacks started and got rough - not only were we constantly on an incline, but the switchbacks now included stair-like climbing on rocks to get to the next switchback. My hamstrings were sore and my back and abdominal muscles were working overtime.

As is characteristic for a Lab, Greta was a champ and navigated the switchbacks with grace and ease, despite having surgery just four weeks ago. Things were a little tougher on Diesel, and a couple of times we had to coax him up the rock stairs to the next switchback, and Mike had to lift him onto the path if the rocks were too steep. But he faithfully kept with us while I was debating if I was going to make it and would have to head back down the trail with Diesel.

It was during one of these moments I decided that if Diesel was willing to do this, push through whatever pain or strain he was experiencing, I could certainly do it. As we inched towards the trail summit, I kept telling Diesel he could do it and what a trooper he was, sometimes in an effort to encourage myself more than him.

But boy, was it worth it. We came to a clearing with two small waterfalls surrounded by thistle, where the temperature dropped and a cool breeze brushed over us. Both dogs ran for a waterfall and drank some of the coldest, mineral-rich water there is. After awhile both of them put their bodies underneath the running water for a well-deserved cool off. They were content and happy.

I sat on a log at the summit, watching these resilient creatures playing in the water, and wrapping my head around what we had just accomplished. As I looked out onto the mountains, vast and full of possibility, I started to believe that this was just a first step of many steps to come. My body and I were working together again, called a truce, kissed and made up. I was highly aware of the muscles that had propelled me to this beautiful summit, something they could not have managed over the last couple years. And I became excited as I thought of future hikes, ski trips and bike rides, activities that are within the realm of possibility.

I was not what one would consider "athletic" before my back went bad. I would use the treadmill a couple of times a week to keep the pounds off, but rarely did any more than what was minimally required. But these days? I WANT to use my body. I want to push its limits, feel its muscles contract, feel the power of my limbs cooperating with my brain, and feel the euphoria that settles over me after intense activity.

I do wonder if I am beyond an age where becoming athletic for the first time is possible. But I realize athleticism is not a point to be reached but a state of mind. And I have thought of some great examples of this: I see Diesel, my 106-pound Boxer moving steadily towards the trail summit (although he would much rather be napping on the couch); I see my parents, 74 and 69 years old, skiing the slopes last winter; I think of the story Mike told me on our hike of a 63-year-old man that frequently RUNS the trail we were struggling to ascend. There's so much inspiration out there.

I plan to keep at it and see how far this new body will take me. Thanks, Mike, for being a part of my first post-op hike and making it fun. And thank you Bolted Bionic Dogs for reminding me we are capable of anything (and for snuggling up with me for a nap afterwards.)