Make It Montana: Making my way down from the overachieving ledge

The publication of the book 'One hundred great day hikes near Bozeman,' coincided with my arrival in this town. "Enjoy one of the last great ecosystems on earth," wrote the author in the copy I bought one sunny afternoon. My thoughts exactly.

I combed through the book and planned outing after outing, but the seductive descriptions of hikes full of wildflowers and alpine lakes came with an unfortunate side effect: a gluttonous desire to do it all, and right away. Suddenly, my take-it-as-it-comes approach to my sabbatical was replaced with an anxiety to achieve. Leisure-related anxiety seems an oxymoron, but I was feeling it. Without the stresses of work and carpools and scheduling, I think my mind was looking for trouble, for something new to stew on.

By engaging in some serious mental pushups, I was able to coach myself off the overachieving ledge. I put the book away, sought out locals for their advice on good hikes, and, whenever possible, for their companionship as well. Rather than striking out into the remote unknown alone with an axe to burn, I walked with strangers, heard all kinds of stories, and learned about the flowers and rocks we encountered from a human, rather than a guidebook.

Two weeks ago, just as I was beginning to ponder how to mark the official conclusion of my sabbatical on the first of September, I got a call from my friend, Susan, who invited me to join her on an annual hike to a local summit on the last day of August.

The idea of spending the last day of my sabbatical hoofing it up a 12-mile hike to a peak that another friend says she climbs to "remind her why she lives here" felt like a movie-perfect ending to my summer of exploration. But really, it was Susan's notion of an annual summit hike that really got to me. No need to climb multiple mountains a week as I had originally (insanely) planned. That aspiration was 'insurmountable from the very start,' as Susan said, and it set me up to feel scarcity — a sentiment I'd like to evict wholesale from my mind.

Once a year is enough. In fact, once you cover the basic survival needs of food, shelter, warmth, etc, it seems to me that the idea of 'enough' is entirely about perspective.

More than the hikes, more than the adventures, more than the simple pleasures of catching bugs or chasing trout, what I've taken from these three months of sabbatical is the gift of setting realistic expectations, of choosing to do only as much as I can actually appreciate and be present for. This new approach runs counter to a core part of my personality in many ways — I'm so curious and excited by life that I want to do it all — but even the small steps I've taken so far in this direction have delivered such serene joy. I'm hooked.