07.25.07 - Take A Hike

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Take A Hike

I was convinced I'd never been hiking, the same way I'm sure I've never willingly self-applied patchouli oil or participated in a drum circle. In the reality that I've constructed for myself, I am Guy From New York. That means I am supposed to hate The Great Outdoors and enjoy inhaling carbon monoxide.

Last weekend, I went on a bachelor's trip with a group of friends (I am technically no longer a bachelor, but they were kind enough to give me a dispensation). As on my own bachelor's trip, this trip involved stuff that the soon-to-be-wed person actually enjoyed doing, rather than strippers and other faux-macho idiocy. In the case of my friend, he wanted to go up to the Catskills, chill, and do some hiking.

I didn't know what to expect from hiking, other than lots and lots of walking. (Spoiler alert: it turns out hiking involves lots and lots of walking.) But from the moment we left from the trailhead, the experience felt oddly familiar. At first, I couldn't put my finger on exactly why, since of course I am so used to asphalt and potholes and whatnot. But the smell of rotting leaves in the air, the sound of wind rustling through the trees, it all reminded me of something...

Then it hit me: Hey dipshit, you grew up in the country.

The mountain that I hiked was a mere 90 minute drive from the town where I grew up. I spent an enormous amount of my formative years 'hiking', although I had no idea that's what I was doing. There were woods behind my backyard that seemed to stretch on forever, and you could explore them with little fear of death or dismemberment (except in the fall, when the deer hunters emerged). My parents, despite being City People, were trusting about nature. I was constantly warned not to talk to strangers and avoid people who wanted you to get in the back of their vans, but I was allowed to walk through uncharted woods unhassled.

Almost every kid I knew had a similar wilderness near his home. So when you went to play at somebody's house, 'play' involved stomping through the woods, hitting each other with branches you ripped off of trees. Or throwing rocks in a stream for no good reason. Or seeing how close you dared to get to the Metro North train tracks before running away in a panic.

Officially Sanctioned Hiking in a forest preserve as an adult isn't quite like throwing dead leaves at your friend when you're eight years old. But the experience was eerily familiar, like picking up a novel and remembering, five chapters in, that you already read it years ago.

My friends are much more experienced hikers than I, so they chose the harder routes for our ascent (coded red, because the Parks Department shares a color scheme with Homeland Security). The Red Route we took was very steep and rock-filled, but I felt outdoorsy and strong, mounting all obstacles with the greatest of ease. What, we're only climbing one mountain? Hell, let's do two!

However, I wasn't entirely equipped for the task at hand. I wore Sambas, which are great sneakers for indoor soccer or drinking in Williamsburg, but less effective on rough terrain. I might as well have strapped fresh sourdough rolls to my feet.

On the way up the mountain, I sprained a tiny muscle in my left foot, so I had to be careful not to step on it too hard from that point forward. The last thing I wanted was to snap an ankle and be carried down the side of the mountain. Of course, the resulting overcompensation caused me to sprain a mirror-image tiny muscle on my right foot, thus increasing my chances of Serious Ligament Snappage.

Still, I toughed it out. The pain made me careful, which I guess is what pain is supposed to do (besides hurting). When we made it to the top of the mountain, I felt manly and accomplished. Even though all I'd really achieved was (1) not dying, and (2) seeing the view from the top of the mountain, i.e. a bunch of other mountains.

Emboldened by my "accomplishments," carefulness moved over to make room for reckless abandon. On the way down, we spotted a really neat glacial rock formation just off the trail, one that looked ripe for climbing. Two of my friends scaled it, and their climbs looked difficult but doable. Suddenly I thought I was eight years old again. I convinced myself that I could--nay, that I must!--scale this rock thingie.

What I declined to note before making my own climb is that my two friends were taller than me. So what they could do with difficulty should be nigh impossible for me. They had scaled the mass by standing on a wobbly rock, reaching up to the edge, and pulling themselves up. So I figured that I must do the same. Except my arms were shorter and I would have more weight to hoist.

I was able to reach the edge with my hands by standing on my tippie-toes, but I had no idea what to do next. After some quick mental deliberations, I decided I'd rather try, fail, and get hurt very badly than give up, because I'm very smart. I pushed off with my toes, braced my feet into the face of the rock wall--and then I was stuck there. I tried to raise my legs, but every time I moved my feet higher, they slipped back down to their former position. So if I was going to climb this rock, it was going to have to be all arms.

A year ago, this would have been no problem. Back then, I went to the gym four or five days a week. Nowadays, The Baby is the only weight I lift, and she never stays quiet when I use her to do curls. But I was faced with two choices: use my arms to hoist myself atop the rock, or fall ass-backward onto an unforgiving terrain.

So hoist I did. As I slowly raised myself to the top of the rock, I felt powerful. Rugged. Accomplished. And as I gave one last push to get over the top, I felt something else. Namely, muscles in my left bicep and right thigh simultaneously pulling.

I was on top of the rock, flat on my back, in blinding pain. While writing there, I noticed that the rock underneath was writhing with me. It was not a sympathetic rock, but it was shale, meaning some parts were sturdier than others. I happened to be laying on an unsturdy chunk. So I stood up and moved to another piece, trying to walk off the pain on a postage-stamp sized precipice.

The pain quickly subsided, indicating that the injuries were mild strains, nothing serious. That was good, as I'd need those muscles to descend the mountain and breathe in the future. I stood on the tilting surface of the rock, angled like a Batman villain's hideout, and looked out over the mountain. At least I looked over what portion of the mountain I could see through the trees, which wasn't much. And I convinced myself that, despite my nostalgic ruggedness, maybe I should take a reentry into nature a bit slower.

I got down from the rock by sliding down a tree fireman-pole style. No, really. And while descending the mountain, I made a note to not twist an ankle or eat a poisonous mushroom. Baby steps, on jagged terrain.

Posted 07.25.07 07:51pm * Permalink