A sense of home

It can take a long time to feel at home.

I moved house again recently and it has thrown me off my rhythm. The smooth edges of familiar living have been roughed up, and the pieces have all been shuffled. This being my 10th house in as many years though, means this is not too strange a feeling, and I have some strategies for starting to patch it together again.

Like a dog eager to inspect his new territory, I got out and had more of a look around this week. It’s funny how learning how a new house sits in relation to the curves and the undulations of the landscape, helps you come to terms with your sense of self in an unfamiliar place. 

Drawing in my new surroundings and appreciating where I live, seems to be an integral part of the creation of my own happiness. Whilst travelling a day’s journey from my front door, the beauty, or lack of it that I find, becomes a reflection on how I feel about myself. The action of surveying, and the feeling of coming to know a place as I cover ground on foot gives shape and substance to who I am: If I don’t like what I see, I find it difficult to be at peace with myself when I return. Perhaps this makes me as much a function of my surroundings, as I am of the mind and body I presume to take with me each time I move to these new places.

So what is it I am looking for?

At dusk on Tuesday I made my way quickly onto the greying flanks of Mount Pochoco.  In the previous weeks I had been out, teasing open the rabbit runs a bit more on this side of the mountain and trying to open a passable route through the cactus and fledging eucalyptus to the summit some 3,000’ above. The early eager shoots of spring that I had found knotted across the trail, had now died back. The hot summer sun and the passing of my feet pushing them into retreat. With my back to the city below and the gradient steep, it was not long before I could just concentrate on drawing regular lungfuls of breath; my feet skipping with increasing familiarity over the warm rocks and loose dirt.

The route follows a strong line up a defined ridge, but I had left occasional small piles of rocks to guide me in the less obvious places, and it pleased me now to turn a corner and see one, and know that I had passed here before. Higher on the mountain, when the sun had not yet set, my shadow caught up with me for a short time and ran ahead through the boulders and loose scree and dry grass, before tiring and falling back once again. 

On the summit plateau, even the serious mountains had settled down into the obscurity of night;  the last gasps of day dissolved into their snowy flanks. I stood there for a while, in the dark, to mark the end of the day. The moon was not yet up and the ground that rolled away from me on all sides shortly disappeared too. Then came the cool air pouring down from the Andes, and infront of me, on the earth, an inverted skyscape of city lights from Santiago.

On Thursday, I wanted to try and find a new way onto the the power line trail that contours along the other side of the valley from our new home. It is very runnable, and affords good views up to the ski area and down to the river, interspersed with sections that draw you deeply into the armpits of more minor valleys, allowing you to concentrate on what is close and more immediate. 

If there is an alternative way to go somewhere, I always like to try and tease it out; even if it only a very minor deviation; even if is longer and less convenient. I like the variety. The only way I knew to the trailhead was through the official entrance to Ñilhue Park. There is a small fee, and whilst I am not against helping keep this private land open to the public, I still find it a little grating to pay for the privilege of travelling under my own steam in the outdoors. Crossing the river, I passed the park entrance and tracked along the road until I found a boulder choked canyon that looked promising. It was not really runnable in an uphill direction - too steep and technical - but I grunted my way up it, stopping at one point to bridge up a deep slot where a short waterfall must have once cascaded. 

I made it up to the pylons eventually and stood there, looking up at the trail that I could contour easily along and begin to close the loop back home. The temperature was well into the 90s now. The air was very still and heavy, and the dust I had kicked up from the canyon hanged around as if in suspension. My water bottles were nearly dry and made a weak gasping sound as they adjusted themselves to the new thinner air.

I kicked again into higher continuation of the canyon and continued climbing, leaving the original plan of following the trail behind. I felt drawn to explore further up the mountain. The dry river bed was slightly more forgiving now; just on the limit of what I felt I could run in this heat. I think I passed an old stone sheep pen but I can’t be sure: my sunglasses were misted and all focus was reserved for the task of picking the trailing foot up before the front one touched the ground.

I stopped at a level area and noticed that a new sound besides my breathing and footsteps had interrupted my rhythm. There was a whispering noise coming from an invisible line stretched out in front of me, close to the ground. 

At 5,000’ I found a shallow water catchment that seems to skirt the entire flank of El Naranjo Mountain.  It runs every so slightly downhill and is drawn off at intervals as it passes above farmsteads to provide fresh running water. A greater variety of notably more mature trees grow along its length. Small mammals retreat here into the shade, during the heat of the day, and an abundance of birds flitter among the nests built into the trees. The closeness to this moving body of water, in the midst of that thick, hard scorched day, immediately made me feel light again, and tread easily. I turned to run along it, drawing in the knowledge of the waterway in the mountains that encloses my new home.