THE NARRATIVE ARC
A Vast Mudslide of Listlessness and Depression at Turkey Mountain
When you’re lost in heart and mind
I mostly hated Tulsa when we moved here in 2006. Drivers blared their horns, angry and rude. The streets were narrow and pitted with potholes. I hardly saw cops anywhere, which left me feeling strangely out of place and sort of unsafe — Norman crawled with police, which gave me a (misguided) sense of security.
I felt like a small-town transplant to a hostile city. I despised it.
After graduating with our college degrees, my husband and I moved from Norman to Nowata, Oklahoma. In August we moved to Tulsa.
Our new apartment complex was grungy grey, inset below road level. Inside, it was a spacious well-lit modern apartment. It was near downtown, surrounded by many unhoused people and bail bond shops. It muttered under its city sidewalk mouth, people were down-and-out.
When we told new acquaintances we lived near 15th and Denver we’d usually get some kind of surprised or questioning look — you live there? People seemed genuinely confused by our choice.
My husband started his job in downtown Tulsa. When he got off work at 5:00, downtown’s workaday turned into a ghost town — offices closed, lights out, parking lots almost empty.
We discovered a martini bar near my husband’s office and spent many nights sipping cocktails there and wondering about our strange new life. There was a hip bartender with a perfect wedge of straight hair hanging over one eye. She’s the one I still kind of remember, but we frequented the spot so often, the bartenders recognized us. Sometimes we’d meet some of his new coworkers at Lola’s, one of the few restaurants that stayed busy downtown. A rambunctious extrovert would chat us up, hop up to flirt, chat us up, and repeat. It felt good to be with new friends.
Our upstairs neighbors were smokers. The pollution infiltrated our heating and air system, making me feel sick to my stomach despite being a former smoker.
Cockroaches were so abundant we stored pantry items in Tupperware in the fridge.
Unhoused people slept by our complex dumpster. Homelessness was much more visible in Tulsa than it had been in Norman. Once, I came home with groceries, popped the trunk of my car, and saw a man approach it as though he was going to steal all my groceries.
It hurt to see the disparity between “us” and “them.” And, I still wanted my food. It was a stark reminder to me that life is not fair. It was depressing.
Our windows were bashed out of our car. I’d wake up in the morning and fetch a bottle of vodka, slipping a shot into my morning orange juice or tea. I worried about student loans. A lot. I applied for a few jobs and ended up accepting a part-time job at one of the local library branches. I wasn’t happy.
One cold and rainy day I felt the need to get out and walk. I had heard about Turkey “Mountain” (highest elevation 804 ft) that locals frequented for hiking and dog walking. Some Tulsans told me to be careful going out there, to only go with a friend.
I forgot my cell phone. I took Yum Yum the Yorkie with me for company and a little added safety (she was about five pounds, but she’d make noise at least). It was misty and wet, the trails lined with squishy mud.
Although I had been warned not to hike alone, I considered it worth the risk. My head was clouded and depressed and I knew nature would assist me in getting out of my constant thinking. It would bring me a little peaceful mindfulness. At the bottom of the mountain, I looked around and decided once and for all to take a chance. Yum Yum and I began our hike towards the top of the hill.
I should mention I have a talent for getting lost. I wasn’t and still am not a seasoned hiker. Then, I wasn’t familiar with reading trail signs and it turned out that at this time Turkey Mountain trails were very poorly marked, I was assured by many hikers after relaying this tale.
Yum Yum and I made it up to the tippy top. It was a good hike. We passed some cyclists and runners but not many people were out in the cold and wet. My spirits lifted. It felt good to be outside, away from the city, away from the apartment complex, away from the worry about student loan debt.
Feeling good, and noticing nightfall encroaching, Yum Yum and I started back down the trail. By this time, we were both quite damp. She was worn out and I was ready to go back home. I felt peaceful and looked forward to seeing my husband when we returned.
Down and down we went until I noticed we were going back up and up.
This began a tiring exercise of walking in circles, up and down, down and up, again towards the top of Turkey Mountain. I wasn’t sure what to do. My pride swelled and I was embarrassed. I ignored the few cyclists who passed by and reprimanded myself for having too much pride to ask for help.
I looked down the side of the mountain and thought about going off the trail, attempting to get to the Arkansas River that lay below. By this time Yum Yum was wet, cold, and shivering. I was worried she’d get hypothermia. I gazed down the side of Turkey Mountain and wondered if I really could bypass the trails and climb down the steep side of the hill. I tried to carry Yum Yum with me as I crouched and attempted scaling downward, but quickly realized the climb down would be too treacherous. It wasn’t an option.
My eyes started to tear up. The sun hadn’t been out before, but there was light. Now, the sun was disappearing, and fast. How I wished I had brought my cell phone.
As night closed in I could feel our time dwindle for making it down to the parking lot. I knew my husband was home, worried. We had been gone a long time. I was mad at myself for getting lost. Not a soul passed by for what seemed like forever.
I was cold and scared. I genuinely thought I might be stuck on Turkey Mountain all night. I was on the verge of a panic attack.
Instinctively, I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Help!” Another hiker found his way to us. He was relieved to see that I was only lost; not maimed. It turned out that he was also new to Tulsa and had been coming out often to hike at Turkey Mountain. He said sometimes he also got lost. He agreed the trails were poorly marked.
Our new guide calmly led us down the trails, getting lost once and quickly figuring out how to continue going downward toward the parking lot instead of up and down, around and around in those terrifying circles.
I joked around and expressed my thanks. At one point, I fell down, bottom first, and slid through the mud. What could I do but laugh at myself and be thankful for my good luck with finding a guide to help us safely down?
I drove back home: soaked, muddy, and relieved. My husband was greeted with a squishy hug and an apology. We toweled off Yum Yum and I jumped in the hot shower. I was still depressed, but the hike had proven a distraction.
When I was growing up, I felt an intense desire to be an adult with an orderly life, but I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had a knack for writing and was intimidated by math and science.
As a teenager, I didn’t realize horticulture existed and gardening wasn’t my thing. I was a depressed and anxious teen, graduating high school a year early but unsure of a path to travel in college. After earning my master’s degree, I decided against pursuing a PhD, after being accepted into multiple programs.
It felt like I was a miserable failure. I was incredibly hard on myself. I stepped out of the shower and fell into a deep sleep.
I learned a valuable lesson that day: when hiking, always bring a buddy and your fully charged cell phone.
Later, we left that apartment, expecting a new member of our family, and as we began to grow, so did Tulsa.
