Fall Marathon Sprint

This happens every year – fall brings a time to recharge after the marathon of summer fun, visitors and projects.

Actually, the summer marathon ends just in time for the fall preparation-for-winter half-marathon begins.

The shorter days and longer nights force a half marathon.

Yet, the length of this half-marathon season is unpredictable – we don’t know when the snow and cold will switch preparations for winter into activities during winter.

I’ve never run a half-marathon, but it looks like an endurance sprint.

Fall feels the same way sometimes.

Last week, I was walking out the door, on my way to fix some fence and bring the cows home, when a tenant in my building said water was raining from her ceiling.

Her text was the pinnacle of a week of rising remodeling expenses and escalating government shutdown repercussions.

I had been looking forward to recharging my spirit with some outside air and time in the saddle, but clearly that time had to wait.

I had a plumber remodeling the second floor of the building, above her shop, so I knew where the water came from.

A quick text from me and he stopped the rain.

Then a 15-pound concrete cylinder fell through her ceiling.

I used my mean voice to solve that issue.

So by the time my friend, Colleen, and I finalized plans to ride in the mountains the next day, I had some pent up words swirling in my system.

She had her own version of stress.

We traded talking and listening to each other nonstop for an hour as we drove to the trailhead.

Two other trail riders in the truck never got a word in.

Who am I kidding?

They speak English as their second language. They never had a chance to translate their thoughts, much less voice them.

Colleen and I both knew that this ride was likely our last one for the year.

Both of us had long to-do lists so we were glad for the excuse of giving the French visitors a true Montana experience, knowing full well that we needed it far more than they did.

By the time we all stepped into our stirrups, Colleen and I had almost emptied our Vent Dump.

After a couple of miles, we could finally quit talking -- and managing the unmanageable of our lives.

That’s when the stillness, the scents of the pines, and the rhythm of hooves slowed my breathing from an anxious, control freak arrhythmia down to functioning meditation.

It’s when I began to notice the waves of ancient seabeds undulating in the cliffs above us and the fronds of beargrass along the trail.

The grazing mountain goat and mule deer demanded silent pauses along our ride.

Voices that had been a lifeline only minutes ago became resented interruptions.

The next day, I spent time with the muted roar of the skid steer motor as I lowered the height of my mailbox and cleaned corrals in preparation for weaning lambs.

But the voices in my head were quiet as I concentrated on scooping.

Maybe the residual silence of the mountain meadows still resonated.

By Sunday, falling snow muffled all sounds of life.

Even the chickens seemed to be whispering.

The quiet was like a comforter wrapping the world in a hug.

I could barely remember the cacophony of summer.

The marathon of preparations for winter continued, but I could feel the land settling in for a rest.

The urgency was still there, but the desperation had dissipated.

My running muscles – both mental and physical – had a respite.

This was the gift of fall.

I thanked the universe for the marathon sprint of changing seasons.