Eagle Forest and New Rhythms

The lights on the dashboard flash red. The weird diagram that looks like a toadstool tells us that the van is about to lose power. This road, of all the roads, is not where we want the van to die. Rob drives, and I frantically google the fault. We are climbing the hairpins to the Val d'Annivers in the Valasian Alps of Switzerland. We have been trying to get here for three years. We pass a bungee jumping spot. This road is perfect for that; it has a 1000m drop and no side wall. I hug Juno and will the van on.

Tonight, we will not be camping. Rob, Juno and I will be lounging in a large bed in white fluffy robes. We stayed here four years ago on the second part of our honeymoon when we came to run the Tour d'Val Annivers. We promised to return the following summer; I booked it straight away, assuming, as we all do, that our future would be the one we planned. Then came covid and cancer and chemo, four years and a pile of shit later, and having moved the booking on four times, we had returned.

We are not fluffy robe kind of people; we are somehow a little too wild and unkempt to fit, but this place is different; it sits at 2000m and looks out over the valley of 4000m peaks. Most importantly, it sits within the landscape of wild forests and eagles.

The following day, we wake to discover Autumn has arrived in the Alps. The forest has gained a vibrancy; summer green has given way to slopes of dip-dyed blood orange and rich earthy browns. There is a chill in the air and a warmth on the land. There is a slowness.

We complete our morning ritual of listing the animals we hope to see that day: deer, marmot, pine martin, a humble toad, and the mighty eagle. Rob has an uncanny ability to spot wildlife; he tells me he thinks like an animal and can imagine where they would tread. I think it is a sixth sense, something primal. Some days, we believe we can summon their presence.

I remember back to when we ran in this forest four years ago. I recall how the landscape felt. We both looked skywards, wondering if it was a falcon or an eagle. We ran hard on the route made famous by the Sierre- Zinal race, stopping occasionally to take photos, eat or enjoy the view. We had a plan, and that was to run.

Here, laying my footsteps across that same path, it would be easy to feel the sadness of what has been; it would be easy to see what has been lost, but I don't. Sometimes the lanes and paths of my home carry memories, but I don’t feel that here. I breathe in the wildness and I welcome a sense of smallness in the infinite forest. As we watch for animals, there is only this moment.

I don't chase challenge in the way I did. I no longer feel the desire, nor can I drag up the motivation to push to extremes, to turn myself inside out in the pursuit of speed or distance. The desire for hardness has been replaced by something other, a calmness.

Sometimes, I miss the feeling of exhaustion, the sense of having pushed; perhaps someday it will return. During those four years, I did what we all do in challenging times: I leant into the thing that felt safe, a place that felt healing and restorative. I searched for wildness and I found a new rhythm.

Somewhere between a walk and a jog, the three of us emerge from the forest. With the best animal spotter in my universe and Juno, my very best friend, we layered new memories into our Eagle forest.

Two deer, a close-up marmot, a pine martin and some scary looking cows later, we return to the hotel. We wash our muddy legs, slide into our oversized white robes and sit awkwardly in the spa. I drink tea, and I dream of the forest.