It was never supposed to be like this.

Nine years ago, I fled Massachusetts to take a job in Vermont. I choose to leave the city, my friends, and my family behind to pursue outdoor recreation sans traffic, attitudes, pollution, and suburbia. I was running towards something, not away from something.

And it was amazing. There is something to be said for radical change. Dreaming up an idea and taking a risk. It is nice to have the freedom to do so rather than feeling trapped, without a dream to pursue — the locked down oppressive feeling I have come to know so well.

Seven years ago, I moved to central New Hampshire, sandwiched between the lakes and the mountains. Two hours or less from almost every ski area that I cared to ski, forty minutes from my favorite mountain. A perfect location. I once dreamily stated that it would be great if this specific position in this specific location opened up and I could get the job. And I did.

It was the last time that I could rely on haphazard circumstance to determine my direction. Which was fine for a few years. What was once endless enthusiasm for my work and my play carried me through four great years. But the last three years have been a grind professionally and personally — a grind that has had serious effects on my health.

But I think I am on the mend.

The doc still can’t figure out what is wrong. But the symptoms are anathema to an active outdoorsman. Extreme physical fatigue despite wanting to do things, randomly tired and sore legs, and lower back pain despite not exercising and trying to rest.

The deteriorating physical state makes the mental state worse which makes the physical state worse. I am in the worst shape and at the highest weight in my life. Falling apart physically at age 35 wasn’t part of the plan. This type of thing just shouldn’t happen to an active outdoors enthusiast.

I had all but given up on a final ski trip to Tuckerman earlier this month. It was physically beyond me, most days my legs nearly buckle under me just taking the dog out. But this past weekend, my grit and determination rose up in a last ditch effort to make it happen. On Saturday, my legs were feeling good. So I went for a hike.

Mount Osceola is fairly modest with barely 2k vertical gain and only a few miles round trip. But in my condition, it might have seemed a daunting prospect. Nonetheless, I hiked it top to bottom in one effort without stopping, as if I truly felt I could prove mind over matter could work. It felt great, even the descent. I hiked relentlessly and tirelessly.

Monday evening had me thinking that I could work towards it. July turns. I can’t ride my bike to the end of the road but I can kick butt hiking. I knew I didn’t have much time but I felt like doing something audacious, as if I could wrench a part of my psyche from ten years ago into the present moment.

Mount Morgan and Percival are less than half an hour away from my house yet I rarely enjoy these mountains that I live so near. I used to drive four hours round trip to hike this mountain. Now I can’t be bothered to drive less than one hour round trip.

Mine was the only car in the lot when I arrived at one of the Lakes Region’s most popular hikes. The days are long around the Solstice but 6pm is still fairly late to start hiking. I knew I could make it up and down Mount Morgan with ample light if I hurried. And once I started hiking, I refused to stop.

I made it to the summit of Morgan and thought nothing of extending the hike to include Percival. I refused to stop, I didn’t need to stop. I needed to push hard and feel something positive. I needed to feel that I could do something, I needed to get outside of my head.

It isn’t just all in my head, physically I am a wreck and I still want answers. I still want desperately to be able to ride again. But at least I can still hike. At least I can still do something reckless and brash, something that makes me feel great. I can still target something that feels important and march towards it with reckless abandon.

I didn’t know how much I wanted it until I had almost given up on it.

Or perhaps, my psyche finally figured out that I need something — anything — to be important and meaningful enough to fight for.

Either way, July turns will be mine.