This blog post was written over the course of the last month and is, like me, all over the place.
I steady my shaking hand and gently nudge the block back and forth. Laying on the floor of the shared living room of our ACE provided housing in Sacramento, brow furrowed in deep concentration, I try to carefully remove the Jenga piece without toppling over the precariously leaning tower. “So, Annie, would you describe yourself as competitive?” teases one of my crewmates.
I whisper in response, “Shhhh, I need to focus.”
I dig around in my “garage”, the large storage space beneath my bed accessed by the van’s back doors, attempting to retrieve my wetsuit and booties from underneath the recently retired ski gear. Still in the parking lot of the local Santa Cruz surf shop where the most quintessential California surfer-boy helped me pick out a “solid transition board that still has some rad rides in it” from the used board room, I try to play it cool as I crawl around in the back of Ody in the off-chance he’s watching from the store window. I finally find the wetsuit and booties in the bottom bin still lightly dusted with Rhode Island sand from my last surf in the fall. I shake out the suit thinking about how it is the final piece of equipment that I packed back in October that has yet to be put to use. As I rearrange the aftermath of my hunt, I eye the three squash rackets- scratch that last thought. I have not touched those besides for moving them out of the way to access my bike or skis. The three rackets have been awkwardly clanking and bouncing around in the back of the van as I’ve made my way cross country over the last 7 months.
It’s been over a year since I last stepped on a squash court. My reasoning behind bringing my squash gear was that perhaps I would be able to find some matches along the way in exchange for showers. I could blame it on the pandemic, but, truthfully, in the last year I’ve had no urge to step back onto a squash court. I was sad and nostalgic, but also filled with a great sense of relief at the end of my senior season. It’s the people, my teammates, and coaches that I miss. But, squash and I were long overdue for a break. I don’t miss it, because I know that when I’m ready I can pick up one of the three rackets I’ve been carrying with me, find a court, and be reembraced by those white walls and red lines.
After driving a few hours or in the evening before pulling into a Walmart for the night, I would often stop at whatever local park was nearby to stretch my legs and let Churro run around. On these excursions, we stumbled upon many fields dotted with children in uniform running around chaotically chasing some sort of ball. I’d find a spot for us to sit, behind the row of eager parents cheering on the sideline, and settle in for some free entertainment. In upstate New York we watched flag football, through Maryland and Virginia we saw countless Little League games, and from Texas all the way to California, even without Churro’s companionship, I became a regular fan at town soccer games. Most recently, I witnessed some high school beach volleyball at the town beach in Santa Cruz.
It may sound odd in comparison to all the other, debatably, more interesting things I’ve seen while on this journey in the van, but I’ve found myself captivated in these moments watching stranger’s kids running after a ball, smiling, and high-fiving their teammates. I think back to the days when I would bike down to the Esplanade on the Charles River in Boston every Saturday morning for town soccer games or walk across Beacon St. to the Common with my brothers and Dad, our assistant coach, in our Mets uniforms, for Little League. Those fields were where I discovered my love for sports, the thrill of a game, and the camaraderie that comes along with being part of a team.
Perched on a hill above the field and the other spectators, I laugh to myself. It’s such a silly concept: the arbitrary lines painted on the grass and the made up rules. Having just re-entered society after being out in the mountains and woods for a few weeks, I’m perplexed. I feel so distant from the version of myself whose identity used to be tightly tied to these games. At the same time, I remember how fun it is. It was. How much fun playing sports can be.
I fell in love with sports for many reasons. Of course, one of them being how much fun they are. However, another was that I loved to win- I mean, who doesn’t? Over the years as recreational town teams turned to club, national tournaments and rankings were added into the mix, and practices included challenge matches, the innocent enjoyment of playing these games that I originally fell in love with began to dissipate. And, the toxic mentality of “it’s not fun unless I’m winning” took over.
After packing the van prior to my departure, I gave my room a good clean, discarded any remaining clutter, and organized the possessions that I would leave behind. I picked up my old high school varsity letters stacked on my dresser and counted them. “Yup, still only 10 of them”, I thought to myself. Two shy of being perfect. Dormant disappointment stored away from 8 years prior when my freshman self was cut from the varsity soccer and lacrosse teams rose within me. Laughing at the ridiculousness of it, I tossed them in a box in the back of my closet. 10 out of 12 is pretty damn good.
I struggled out of bed at the crack of dawn regretfully having agreed to participate in the annual distance swim at the beach club with my mom. “It will be fun!” she said. I complained as we drank coffee, mumbled and grumbled as we drove down to the beach, and complained some more eyeing the cold ocean as we discarded our sweats and put on our swim caps and goggles. “Annie, look!” I followed my mom’s gaze to the table set up in the sand, shimmering silver in the early morning light. My eyes lit up. “Trophies!”, I exclaimed with a grin slyly inching its way across my face. The casual morning swim was no longer casual- it was something I could win. I ran into the icy waves and swam until one of the trophies was in my hands*.
*Unfortunately, despite my valiant efforts this race was rigged and I didn’t get a trophy. I’d like to note that the organizer of the race awarded all of the trophies to his own family members… I am not still bitter about it.
I fell victim to a narrow definition of success. Success was marked by trophies, varsity letters, numbers on the scoreboard, my position on a ladder, and, of course, winning. Call it ego, or needing some form of external validation, if I couldn’t win or somehow prove that I was better than others, I wasn’t happy. And, if I failed to do so, i.e. lost, I was definitely not happy.
I place my racket, googles, sweat towel, and water bottle back into their respective spots in my squash bag beside the folding black chair which sits underneath the wall of framed certificates of past Dartmouth All-American squash players, facing the left wall of the glass court on match days. Having just returned from my traditional post-loss, fuming lap around the gym, I sit down in the chair and prepare for my coach, Hansi’s, notes on my match. Expecting the usual critiques, my movement was bad, too many boasts and cross courts, or that I hadn’t followed the game plan, I was surprised when he crouched down beside me and said, “You care too much about winning.”
Excuse me? Aren’t I supposed to? Isn’t that how this works? Are we not trying to win?
Playing at the top of the Dartmouth ladder for four years, I often faced opponents who were well out of my league. I played the best of the best: international players who play pro and the top Americans. My Dartmouth team typically succeeded due to our depth. We relied heavily on the bottom and middle of the ladder to secure our 5 wins in order to win the overall match. No one expected me to be able to win many of my matches, instead I was encouraged to view these frequent ass-whoopings as learning opportunities and motivation to improve. And, I did, but loss after loss over the four years took its toll as well.
Hansi looked at my stunned face. “You have to look at the little things. You moved well in this match and your length was great. You can be happy about it even though you lost. You can have fun when you’re playing well even if you don’t win.”
I nodded. I understood that in theory, and I was pretty pleased with how I played.
“But, it’s not as fun as winning.” I replied half jokingly, half not, knowing that he of all people understood my obsession.
“Losing sucks. But, don’t forget that this is just a game.”
Despite four years of working on this mindset and my losing record providing ample opportunity to improve it, during my college squash career I never ended up getting the hang of being a content loser. Instead, I became burnt out and tired of the idea of winning and losing all together. I attribute my strengthened love for hiking, mountain biking, skiing, and surfing to this newfound disinterest in competition. Recently, I have loved being active and pushing my body to new limits outside the white lines on a field or the four walls of a court. The thrill of climbing to the top of a mountain, skiing through powder, or catching a wave satisfies my hunger which was once only satiated by winning. I have learned that to be successful you don’t need to be the best. You don’t need to be awarded a trophy. You don’t need to win.
My arms can only extend around a small portion of the giant trunk, and my face rests against the surprisingly soft, worn bark of the Giant Sequoia. I look up at the towering branches criss-crossing the blue sky. Rays of sunshine filter through the rustling leaves and dance on the forest floor. I breathe deeply. Walking through the Giant Forest I feel small surrounded by the largest trees on Earth. I’ve experienced this sensation before throughout my journey often finding myself alone, a singular speck, on a vast landscape. I’m always in awe of these places that have been spared from human development. I tread carefully through them hoping that they will be preserved forever though part of me wants everyone to experience it. To lose themselves within a landscape; to look around and see no evidence of humankind besides themself; to realize we are small. The other part of me hopes places like this are never put on the map, never geotagged, never become popular destinations, and never ruined by us. Walking among these trees stirs something else within me. With trunks up to 100 feet wide, these trees have been standing here for 3,000 years making them some of the oldest living organisms on Earth. My life barely scratches the outer most rings of these trees. The burnt scars across the bark where the trees are still healing from past fires begin to tell a story of survival. Looking around I soak all that I can in, however just a mere four feet below me hidden beneath the forest floor is an expansive network of interconnected roots, the brains of the trees, that I will never see.
I often refer to the end of my van journey as my return to the “real world”, but it is in fact the exact opposite. What could be more real than what I’m experiencing now? Certainly not the neat grids of pavement and buildings filled with people consumed by job titles, material items, and numbers representing money in a bank account. Looking down from way above, modern society as whole looks like one big Kinder Kicks Soccer game. Stuck within the confines of white lines, following made up rules, trying to win a pointless game. Modern society as constructed by humans is in a depressing state. The version of reality we have created is riddled with violence, injustice, inequality, corruption, pollution and countless other problems. I wonder how we might live differently if everyone were to really understand how insignificant, small, and temporary we actually are on this Earth. Like the Giant Sequoias slowly healing themselves of burns caused by fires, the Earth, too, will eventually heal itself of the scars left behind by humankind long after we are gone.
Though my squash rackets have taken the back seat, or more accurately thrown in the back of the van, for this adventure, one of the things I’ve loved most about my journey with the sport has been the places those rackets have taken me. From tournaments across the US, to all over Europe, to public busses to the Czech Republic with the Swiss junior national team, to Squash Urbano in Colombia, playing squash has allowed me to see so many new places and create connections with people all around the world. No matter the country or language being spoken, once on a squash court there is familiarity and common ground.
My first Sunday at boarding school I called my mom homesick. The whole week up until then had been full of orientations, meet and greets, classes, soccer tryouts, dorm meetings, and sit-down meals. Alone in an unfamiliar dorm room with no schedule, no homework left, and unsure of what to do with myself, my mom suggested that I go hit the squash ball. I at once felt at ease within the confines of the court as I went through my solo practice routine: counting my forehand and backhand drives, followed by volleys, then drop shots and closing it out with figure eights. The squash court became a safe haven for me, a home away from home, as I went through high school. Similarly, in college I often found myself heading to the courts when feeling overwhelmed, stressed, or needing to quiet my mind. There is something truly satisfying and almost meditative about getting lost in the rhythm of hitting a ball as hard as you can against a wall, again, and again.
After 8 long days out on hitch doing trail work in Archer Taylor Preserve in Napa Valley, sitting in the backseat of the truck heading back to Sacramento, carsick from the windy roads and my crew’s collective body odor, I’m beyond grateful for the van which awaits me. Freshly showered and back within Ody, the white paneling I put up with my own hands embraces me not unlike how those of squash court used to. I let out a sigh of relief happy to be home. Until now, my brief breaks from the van had been in the houses of friends and family. Returning to the van after those visits where I was pampered was always an adjustment. I never thought I’d look around the van, at my short bed and portable toilet, and think, “Wow, how luxurious!”. However, after a week of sleeping on the ground in my tent and sharing a communal latrine (a pit for everyone’s poop) being back in the van feels like staying at the Four Seasons.
It’s been a month and half since I started working at ACE and with six weeks left, I’ve decided to leave early. It’s hard to put into words what a whirlwind experience it has been. Sitting in a field of wildflowers, removing the invasive plants like woolly back vetch, Himalayan blackberry, and French Broom for 10 hours a day, I found myself thinking what the fuck am I doing. Getting paid $2.50 an hour, crews like mine often get hired to do these jobs which a herd of grazing goats could do in a fraction of the time, because we’re cheaper. Cheaper. Than. A. Herd. Of. Goats…
Honestly, I did not know what to expect when joining a conservation crew, but I was prepared to work hard and knew that some of the work would be monotonous. Besides invasive removal, essentially weeding a large scale garden called nature, I did learn a lot about trail building and maintenance. The most stimulating project I worked on was building a set of steps on a trail- a week long effort of hauling out the materials and tools, digging, drilling, and rebar-ing them into place along the hillside. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the work or that I didn’t want to play Dungeons and Dragons with my crew on our off days. What it came down to was that I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the van for extended periods unattended while we were on hitch. The provided parking options were subpar and caused me a lot of stress. Coming back last week to Ody and all of my possessions having been towed was my last straw- and an expensive one.
Building steps is slow work. One piece of wood then the next. Bottom to top. One step at a time. You can’t work on anything but the current step, because you need to see how it turns out before measuring the next. You might hit an unexpected root or a rock that you can’t pick axe your way through and are then forced to adjust your entire schematic. Getting towed was me hitting a rock and instead of endlessly whacking at it with a pick, I’m reevaluating my plan.
Though disappointed that it wasn’t the experience I imagined it would be, I’m proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone, trying something new, making friends, and for trusting my intuition when deciding it was time to move on. Back behind the wheel, I’m met once again by endless possibilities and faced with the question which has become so familiar to me, “Where do I go now?”. I currently find myself camped for the night overlooking Stinson Beach, gazing out onto the foggy Pacific on Mount Tam with large redwood groves nearby beginning yet another chapter of this crazy, beautiful journey.
ABLAZ 
Best pictures yet and a well hit golf ball makes up for a lousy score any day.
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