Orange Markers

(Prologue to The Race Before Me)

One spring I found myself on the Rainbow Lake alpine trail in Whistler, Canada . In town ostensibly for a conference on medical imaging, at heart I was really climbing mountains. And so were my legs every chance I got – the steeper the better, the less traveled the better. On paper, this trail seemed tame enough to navigate with a nonstop run, in fact that is why I chose it. I looked forward to a few hours crossing creeks and climbing switchbacks and then back I would go to the hotel Jacuzzi. Not a bad plan, in my book.

Not a good plan, in reality.

Not even one fourth the way to the top, the beaten path turned abruptly to a snowy path. To me, this was frustrating, my constant run becoming hindered, first to a slippery hike then to a step-by-step puzzle. Pure stubbornness kept moving me upward. I was bound and determined to fulfill at least part of my plan – making it to the top.

The first time my foot crashed through the crunchy layer of ice and dropped me waist-deep in snow, I realized that I might have picked the wrong time of year to follow this trail. Rainbow Lake trail follows a creek up the mountain, and more than several times I found myself powering over snow bridges that had no ground beneath, just rushing water that snaked around unseen until it would open up over cliffs. These icy waterfalls were quite something to see and hear, but I didn’t want to ride one.

The trail was gone. Well, it was there under four feet of snow, but pretty useless to me. I had no footprints to follow, just a series of orange markers nailed to the trees every so often. Early on I happened on a fairly stable bit of trail and confidently resumed my running pace, only to find myself staring down a ravine minutes later. In my enthusiasm to reach the top, I had managed to lose all contact with the trail. A bit spooked, I retraced my own footprints back to the last marker, and altered my strategy to be plain and simple – follow these orange trail markers carefully.

As I resumed my journey, I allowed myself to rely on the orange markers. I had to, really. Me getting along that trail safely and not sliding off some frigid cliff was now dependent on this alpine version of connect-the-dots. My control over the situation was distilled down to a simple technique – make it to an orange marker, stop, scour the landscape for the next, then proceed with confidence. I learned quickly that the markers were placed somewhat sparingly, but always sufficiently, wasting not a spot of orange color on redundancy. Subtle but necessary, simple but powerful, they alone defined the path.

On more than one occasion the next marker seemed to fall on the least obvious route. There were instances where the semblance of an easy, beaten path continued on, while the marker took a swift and illogical turn to the left or to the right…but every illogical turn led to a bridge over a spilling creek or to a safe passage along a steep ridge. Under the snow-covered mountainside were dangers I couldn’t even see, and the markers steered me through. I understood not to set my eyes too far ahead, nor to make no sudden movements, unless consulting them first. I gained confidence in these orange markers and found comfort in them. At the same time, I found myself fretting a lot less and finding more joy in my trip, despite how much it differed from the one I had intended.

bn (2000)