Goldstream: mental storywriting

It was a day of over-preparing my mittens, so my hands sweat inside the snowmobile gloves all around the trails. It was a day of mostly singleton hikers appearing around the next bend, mostly with dogs, leaning a little crazier than usual. 

I was so happy to see the water low enough to cross under the Malahat through the big concrete tunnel. I pass a man with a dog and he’s pretty rough looking so I glance at his jeans, quickly, to see if they’re the kind of fundamental grubby that suggests transience, and that shouldn’t matter, except I’m a woman alone in the woods, but then I feel guilty for judging, but then I feel indignant that I feel guilty, but what else is new. 

I start up the escarpment of Niagara Falls. I’m thinking about a story I wrote. It’s about a figure skater doing this one big move for the first time, it’s already been rejected a few times but I know it has potential, and I realize a weakness of the story is that the move doesn’t really have significance. Why this move? Why is it important? I feel relieved to have thought of this, smart for figuring this out (see, this is why I hike) and then I run into a woman standing on the bridge across Niagara Creek. She’s older, in white clothes and full makeup, and she’s talking to herself. I can’t get past her, she’s blocking the bridge. I pause, annoyed, wary, open. She asks me where the creek goes. “I always wondered where all this water is coming from,” she says. I wait for her to give me a spiel about masks or talk gibberish. But she is just talking, a little crazy. I smile. I edge past her. I say my standard “have a good one!”

I start down the Prospector’s Trail. The ideas about my story are really coming fast and hard now. It’s always like this when I hike - the physical activity sans distractions means a tortuous torrent of ideas. I realize that the whole figure skating aspect of the story is underserved, and also that one of the characters doesn’t have a reason to be there. I whip out my phone and thumb the ideas into Notes on a cracked, rain-spattered screen. Thinking about writing is as much work as writing. 

A man with a corgi blocks my path. He also looks homeless - rough, stained jeans, grizzled, hunched - but he talks to the dog in such a loving gentle voice I find myself unconcerned. After I pass him I wonder, as I always do, if that makes me a coward or a Karen. Those are the only two choices when you walk alone in the woods. 

The dog is concerned at me. The mist rises; the tires on the highway down below breathe; the rain spits; the ideas thunder past. 

I rethink the lede. I’m setting the key lede scene in a superfluous room, only to turn around and describe a secondary, but critical, environment in the next graf. Why not just set the original scene in the key room? I thumb more notes. I am euphoric and frustrated in equal measure. I will serve you, little story! 

I panic on a gentle downward pitch: is the main character impressed, by the skater, or in love with him? Romance and power are not always the same thing. It’s a short story; I only have so many words. Greatness. It’s about greatness. I want to write about love so much...but kill your darlings. 

I don't even notice the woods moving by. I walk this trail enough to occasionally get bored; today, I'm already nearly at the bridge before I can blink. It’s not that wet but the trail is empty. I only encounter one cluster of people, in bright Goretex with very bouncy dogs, speaking what sounds like Russian. None of them smile at me. I wonder if they are impressed with Vancouver Island.

I reach the bridge. The river is high, too high to cross back under the Malahat without getting my feet wet. I am tempted to just wade through with my boots on, give ‘em a wash, but I have too much left to hike to risk frigid wet feet. I slip off my boots on the rocks under the highway and balance on one foot midstream and imagine that someone seeing me is impressed by my balance and then feel chagrined at my own ego. The water when I step into it is so cold it hurts my blood. This makes me very happy. 

I start up Finlayson. My stamina is very good these days. The rocks are slick with rain. I realize the inspiration about the story is wearing down and the walk has done its job. I start a podcast about a journalist who fucked up. I scrabble up sheer rock face and think that I have fucked up way harder than this person in the podcast whose whole deal is that they fucked up in this epic way. It’s a whole redemption arc. Do I need a redemption arc? Should I revisit past traumas and work through them in some productive way? 

I don’t stay long on the summit, the wind is higher here,throwing the rain at me like coins. I start back down. I listen to a writing podcast. I come up behind a guy in a red jacket talking to himself. It’s hard to know these days if it’s a phone call or they’re crazy. He turns, makes way for me. I know I could run faster than he could. I feel stupid for being wary and nervous. The hypothetical capable woman I wish I could be wouldn’t be phased even if he was crazy because she’d know exactly what to say and how to handle him if he started acting aggressive or whatever, but also would know he wasn’t going to be aggressive, and that I was an asshole for thinking he might be. Whatever. He lets me by. I forgive myself. I keep going. 

I get back to the car and I’m happy. I have so many new ideas about my story. I know I am circling in on what will make it better. I tell myself for the millionth time this life that when I feel stuck, it’s because I just haven’t figured out clearly enough what I’m actually trying to say. 

Time: 2h

Distance: 12k

Difficulty: Medium (but just the Finalyson bit)