Trudging

Trudging.. something about that word, that sounds just .. tired. 

I’m not a mountaineer by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve been on a number of hill climbs during my life. Snowdonia, the Lake District, the Scottish hills, the northern mountains of Pakistan. In my experience, there’s something that almost always happens.

The hike starts out with anticipation, and high spirits. There’s a sense of a goal to reach for, a looming mountain on a distant horizon, perhaps. And there’s the enjoyment of small delights along the way - going up a gully by a babbling stream, spotting an eagle or a buzzard or other bird of prey. But then when you have made it up and over the first ridge, you see the peak, as far off in the distance as it ever was, and before you an endless vista of bogland and rough terrain. You get down into it, and starting trudging. It seems endless and impassable. The trek becomes a trudge. One weary foot after another. Stumbling through squelching mud. Your foot gets caught in the roots of bracken. And you just have to keep pressing on.

Since our return from Greece it has seemed like that. That burst of activity getting things sorted, so we could put things in order in Athens. But then to return, and  know that there’s a long and uncertain road ahead. So for now at least, life is about trudging through this bog, and trying to stay positive and look forward and not down.