Down in our basement we have storage compartments for each member of our family. If you looked in my son Michael’s compartment, you would find climbing gear, camping gear for long backpacking trips, ski equipment and maybe even a plastic kayak which barely fit. My husband’s closet would look similar, except for the kayak. Instead, you’d also find snow shoes and poles. My husband preferred wood kayaks that he made and kept hung up on our garden wall. My daughter had gotten married and emptied her storage unit. So, I converted that unit into a wine cellar. That’s my space.

I also have another storage area by the furnace. In there you will find crutches for when I broke my knee walking the dog, (I tripped) and my walker for when I broke a hip playing golf. You ask, “how does one break a hip playing golf?” By running down the tee hill, catching my toe on the cement trim, reaching out for the golf cart that wasn’t in reach and falling to the asphalt, smashing my side. It’s a standard joke — if you are taking Mom, dress her in bubble wrap. Now when my family goes on their outdoor adventures, I’m left home.

I compiled my “want list” this past winter and decided I didn’t want to be excluded. I wrote each kid a note. “I want one of you to take me snowshoeing and the other one to take me sledding. Don’t tell me what I can’t do, but encourage me, make it happen.” By Christmas both kids had it planned out. The first adventure would be with Mike, snowshoeing. The second, when I was ready, the entire family would go tubing in Park City.

My son set a date and I agreed, but two days prior to our date, I had made myself sick with anxiety and cancelled. He immediately suggested we meet the next week and when he called to say there was a snowstorm, I was greatly relieved. We set another date. In the meantime, having had a large snowstorm made sledding conditions perfect. My daughter called twice. What was I thinking when I suggested that, I silently thought, as my heart palpitated. I avoided the question by saying, “one activity at a time”.

After hanging up the phone, I ruminated. Who knows, if I break a body part, or crack my skull snowshoeing, I wouldn’t want them to lose their deposit. I shook my head, laughed, and got ready for my snow shoeing date.

My husband picked out my snowshoeing outfit. I looked like the Michelin Man. When my son came to pick me up, his eyes were smiling as he asked, “you are wearing layers?” “Yes, four to be exact”, laughingly I replied. All the way up the mountain, I looked out at the snow-covered peaks with the snow lightly falling. It was beautiful. I also reminded myself that I trusted my son. He’d be patient, he would protect me, he was strong and capable in a crisis. I didn’t have to worry. And until we reached the Nordic Center, I was enjoying this get away.

We entered the building and as I looked around there wasn’t anyone there over forty. What the hell was I thinking? I took a deep breath, listened to the young lady who was fitting me, and tried to stay mindful of what she was saying. If only I had paper and a pen to take notes. My son went out to the car to get his gear. I remained, trying to get my snowshoes on. It was a challenge. All those squats I did daily didn’t help. I sat down on a chair. That made it easier. My arthritic fingers inserted the straps with great difficulty, and I kept pulling the end to lessen the gap. My pulse was beating in my ear. I didn’t realize it, but I was holding my breath. By the time my son came back, I had the shoes on. What had seemed like hours was only minutes. He checked what I had done and pulled the straps tighter. In seconds he was up, snowshoes on, backpack swung over his shoulders, and was holding the door for us to exit to the slopes. I lifted myself from the chair slowly, using my poles for balance and walked like a penguin out into the cold.

I felt excited. I could do this. That was until we reached the downward sloped path. The warning bell went off in my head: a perfect place to topple; I was frozen. My son reached out and grabbed my elbow. With his help, I managed the five steps downhill without planting my face in the snow. After a half hour, mainly on a flat surface, I felt confident. My son told me I was a natural. I felt confident, anxiety had been replaced with the freedom of accomplishment. I took time to look at the mountains, pines, the snow sprinkling down on us. We moved forward and I now appreciated why my family loved the outdoors.

That is until we were climbing up to the plateau, on a narrow path, with a five-foot drop on my right. What if I slip, what if there is ice, I won’t be able to control myself. I started to panic. My son stopped, reached out for me, but this time I refused his hand. He knew I was filled with trepidation. He insisted we stop and look around. It was beautiful and his soft sweet voice took hold of my fear. As we continued 100 feet, we came to a bridge going downward. This time I reached out and death gripped his arm. I was tired and all I wanted to do is sit down.

He spotted a bench at the base of the bridge and suggested we stop. I totally agreed. He sat down. I arranged my feet, started to sit, he grabbed me, and my butt went further down then I expected. My knees were at the same level as my chin. It reminded me of the 1960 toilets. We sat there laughing. I told him I probably would remain there because there was no way I’d be able to get up. We laughed some more. He handed me water, a snack, and sprinkled our conversation with assurances that he could pull me up. Sitting on that bench, looking at nature, and talking to my son was euphoric. And my squats obviously paid off because I did manage to stand up, (with a little help).

After three miles, several panic attacks, magnificent scenery, a loving son, and no injuries, we reached the center. I did it. I really did it! I was so tired my son removed my shoes. “I’m proud of you Mom. Are you ready to go again?” I paused, he smiled.

Caren Beeman is a retired Humanities/Drama adjunct professor at Westminster College and Salt Lake Community College and a produced playwright. She volunteers as a docent at the Utah Museum of Fine Arts, and at Ensign elementary school doing the Intermountain Therapy Read program with her dog, Johnny Walker. She is a talented storyteller whose stories are a reflection of her life and experiences throughout.

I’m always on the lookout for new pieces to post. If you have an essay or poem on aging you'd like to share with others on the blog, click here for submission info. Since I also teach “Writing Through Grief” and “Writing as a Tool to Cope with Anxiety,” if you have a piece related to these topics, I’d love to read it. Anything you want to share about your pandemic experience is also welcome!