All by Nancy King
Embark on an adrenaline-filled adventure with Nancy King as she recounts her gripping tale of being lost while hiking solo at age 86 as she faces treacherous slopes, deep snow, and unforeseen obstacles. Discover how her resilience and unwavering spirit guided her through the toughest of trials, reminding us all of the indomitable power within ourselves. Share the triumph of finding her way back, and be inspired to tap into your inner strength.
Fifty years ago, writer Nancy King was in a bad marriage, lacking authentic friendships, and focused on professional success with no idea how her life would evolve. At eighty-six, she looks back on her life and her younger self, pondering the differences and grateful for the life she’s created.
As a thank you to a tech support ‘genius’, author Nancy King wanted to do something for the man who’d done what four other tech people said couldn’t be done. "If you have time," she said, " I’d like to tell you a story about a Peruvian child who filled my heart with love…"
When a challenging, off-trail hike puts Nancy King’s apprehensions about aging and her physical abilities to the test, she comes out feeling strong and elated.
Regular hikes in nature are an essential component of Nancy King’s well-being. Being in nature helps her to connect to herself and to heal the wounds of childhood trauma. But winter hikes, slogging through deep snow, one foot in front of the other, are exhausting. What kept her going this past winter was finding something she’d never seen before—snow and ice hearts. The more she hiked, the more heart stones she saw, and the more she saw, the more her heart healed.
To lower her anxiety over the past few months, Nancy King has found solace in solitary hikes along Santa Fe trails and extra time to purrdle, a word she’s coined during the pandemic, with her dying rescue-cat Mia.
For years Nancy King resisted buying a smartphone. One day, to celebrate her 84th birthday, she ordered one. A flashback to childhood abuse and the resulting PTSD reactions triggered by the phone’s arrival wasn’t the journey into modern technology she’d anticipated.
Boundary setting and truth speaking have been a lifelong journey for Nancy King. So when she honestly communicated what she wanted and needed in a ski buddy to a friend, it was more than a difficult conversation, it was a chance to bring her authentic self to the relationship.
When a burst valve results in a flooded study, author Nancy King is left temporarily book-less and bereft.
During a walking holiday in Peru, writer and hiker Nancy King found that her most powerful and memorable moments occurred in quiet solitary interactions far away from the tourist throngs at Machu Picchu.
A transformational hike in the mountains results in a profound emotional release for Nancy King, leaving her with a lingering sense of solace and clarity that had previously proved elusive.
When Nancy King celebrated her 80th birthday with a vision quest ceremony in rural Quebec, she carried a lifetime of self-doubt into the forest with her. Today, she's free from all that. Find out what happened.
Not everyone celebrates their 80th birthday alone in the wilderness for four days and four nights . But that's exactly what writer Nancy King elected to do when she signed up for a spiritual Vision Quest. Discover how she manages to tamp down fear and ready herself for the woods as she prepares for the big event.
by Nancy King
It was dark at 6 a.m. when I struggled to wake up so I could get ready to sell books. Would anyone care if I showed up or not? I was wondering what difference my books made in the world as I ate a hasty breakfast and drove to the farmer's market. Wishing I were still in my warm bed cuddling my cat, I set up my display and sat down at a table with three other authors, each of us trying to sell books to people as they passed by carrying bags of lettuce, tomatoes, and corn; they were interested in eating, not reading. Was the effort of writing a book worth it?
Just as I was thinking I’d rather sleep than try to sell books, a woman in her early fifties came up to me and said, “I’d like to buy one of your books. Which one do you recommend?”
“Tell me a little about yourself,” I said.
It was a gorgeous day for a hike--sunny, blue skies, comfortable temperature-perfect hiking weather. F suggested we hike up to the summit of the 12,000’ peak, taking our time, enjoying the profusion of wildflowers that had suddenly emerged after the night’s rain. She was used to hiking at lower altitudes, so we stopped whenever she needed to catch her breath or eat a snack. We climbed in companionable silence, finding the meandering path up to the top with no trouble.
Almost as soon as we started eating, it began to rain. We put on our rain gear, packed up our food, and started hiking down the mountain. The temperature dropped. Balls of hail mixed with the rain. Rivulets of water poured down what we thought was the trail.
Suddenly she screamed at me. “I’m not doing this anymore. Why do you always have to hike? Why can’t we ride bikes? This is dangerous!”
I’m an author, Nancy King—no relation to Stephen King—but if I were, this story might be different. As it is, I travel to independent bookstores in nearby cities, each time hoping I will find a room full of people waiting to hear what I have to say about my new novel, Changing Spaces, and wanting to buy my books.
In one bookstore, a few people wander up to the display, pick up copies of my books and thumb through the pages. This is promising, I think. There aren't many people, but at least looking and thumbing are a prelude to buying. I grin broadly when a petite, well-dressed woman approaches me. “Are you the author?”
The phone rang, a welcome break from correcting student essays. “Want to take a road trip to New Mexico?" asked my son. “I’ve got five days off and I haven’t seen you in a while.”
My son. The southwest. Five days of fun. "Of course," I replied.
On a cool sunny dawn, after getting up at 4 a.m., my friend and I began our hike into the Grand Canyon after agreeing that we would each walk at our own pace and meet at the rest stops. She took off and I followed behind, starting down the 14-mile hike on the Kaibab Trail, munching a protein bar and drinking the electrolyte-water in the bladder of my backpack for breakfast. As the golden rays of the sun highlighted huge stone canyon structures, I felt blessed by the beauty surrounding me.
I have been kidnapped in Spain, abandoned in Japan, lost in Thailand, confronted by fleeing refugees in Hungary, frozen in Denmark, and awed by the kindness and caring of people with whom I had no common language. In my travels I have dealt with strikes, thunderstorms, ice, and tornados. Yet the trip I didn’t take, which involved no outer danger, no worries about the elements or travel arrangements or passports, turned out to be the most difficult trip of all—an inner voyage, to a place inside myself, a journey I had avoided for most of my life.
Everything was working out well. I crossed the Canadian border and passed through customs with no problems, reunited with friends I hadn’t seen in seven years, and prepared to meet my students—teachers who wanted to learn creative ways to teach literature.
The seminar coordinator was smiling, assuring me that the paper, pens, pencils, fingerpaints, and clay were all set up. She led me to the room where fifteen eager participants sat around U-shaped tables, waiting, ready to begin the first of four seminars.
Then I saw her.
