Mondays Are the Enemy

But the forest doesn’t care

Across highway 12 from our camp

Last weekend we pointed the van toward Lee Creek with a little too much heat in the valley and just enough hope to make it worth the gamble. We had camp chairs, bikes, snacks, and a totally unjustified amount of optimism for two people who didn't really research Sally Basin. Day one, Mo and I spun our way up through an endless corridor of lodgepole... trees so uniform they might've been grown by a printer. But a ride's a ride, and we found a hidden little swimming hole on the way back, clear water babbling like it had no clue about the economy, or email, or how often we pretend to be busy.

What on earth is this?

Then Monday came stomping back in like a clumsy raccoon. I’ve coined it: survival day. Don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t open any big conversations, don’t try to solve anything. Just clock in, breathe shallowly, and hope no one notices you’re only physically present.

Not pictured: my internal debate about whether to jump in or cry a little.

But back to the woods, because that’s where things actually happened. On day two, I hatched a scheme. Mo would drive to hike Howard Creek, and I’d do a big solo ride. And it started perfectly... fast descents, forest shadows, ATV lines that carved through the landscape like they were made for me. Then I spotted a moto trail. Cue dramatic music.

This trail may look friendly. It was

Getting lost wasn’t the plan, but I committed to it with gusto. Winding into nowhere, pushing the bike up steep, dusty climbs, sweating like the trail was actively trying to send me back. Eventually, I found myself again... only to immediately decide to go back up in search of an even more elusive trail. I did find it… Four Mile Ridge… and I did run out of gas. Fully. I coasted down with the sort of self-awareness that only shows up when your legs are noodles and the trail is laughing.

Every single branch whispered, ‘you’re lost again, aren’t you?

I limped back to the van with pride and regret in equal measure. Mo was almost done with her hike. She’d had her own day, and we both looked at each other like: yeah, we’re fine... but never again. Until next time.

These moments, they don’t erase Mondays. But they do make them smaller. Like maybe the best way to fight a survival day isn’t to survive it at all, but to remember you already did something worth the whole damn week.

(This post was written with a little help from AI. The trail opinions are entirely my own... except the moto detour. That was probably its idea.)