Hitting the Trail
Every so often a desire to escape civilization distorts the line between what my head wants to do and what my body is physically capable of. I found a hiking trail that is near to my home that I had never been on. According to what I assumed were credible online sources, the trail climbed up a valley toward some waterfalls, and then if I felt extra adventurous, continued over the mountain and back down the next valley over and returned along the base of the mountain to where it started. The entire loop would take in just over ten miles. There would be some steep inclines, but the information was based on someone who had ridden his mountain bike on the proposed route, so hiking it shouldn’t be a problem.
I selected some clothing from the athletic gear section of my closet, including trail running shoes, (which I was excited to actually run on a trail with), compression shorts, a bright orange shirt to make my exhausted corpse easy to locate, and compression sleeves for my calves to prevent cramping. I even took my never-before-used Camelback water supply. The day was cool, I had the right gear for the job, and nature’s call reverberated in my ears. I kissed my wife goodbye and headed out.
Conveniently, a parking lot was located at the base of the trail, so I parked and set off on foot. An official looking sign with a map of the area marked the trailhead. I studied it intensely as I stretched, not knowing what any of it meant. Satisfied that I was limber enough, I began my trudge up the trail. The first part of it turned out to be a kind of access road leading to sluice gates where the city collected water runoff for the reservoir. I followed this, noticing a small footpath that branched off to the left at a steep incline, and ignoring it. About fifteen yards later the access road led to a dead end. I backtracked to the footpath and trudged upwards, both nervous and excited that the actual trail would be wilder than I had previously envisioned.
The flooded trail.
After about five minutes my calf muscles felt like they were going to pop. Either I was on the wrong trail, or someone lied about being able to ride a bicycle up this mountain. It got so steep that I found myself on all fours just to keep steady as I ascended. Huffing and puffing, I came across my first set of fellow hikers. Four casually dressed women, one of them holding the leash of a big slobbery dog, came sauntering down the trail, happily chatting about whatever housewives chat about. I grinned a sheepish hello, and trudged past them. Either I missed a chairlift somewhere, or I was in worse shape than I thought. I passed several other housewife types, only a couple of which wore any kind of fitness-oriented clothing, and began to get the distinct impression that the out-of-shape tall guy in neon orange would be the topic of discussion for a few gossip circles in the near future. The only other men I saw on the trail were a couple of gentlemen, just a couple of decades past their prime, running shirtless in short-shorts together up the mountain trying to prove that prime is just a state of mind. If I had enough breath, I would argue that point. I had no choice but to assume that I had simply come at the wrong time of day. The real athletes must come bright and early to conquer the mountain before breakfast, just to get a good start to the day. Knowing that I would just be in there way if I went hiking at that time, I resigned to just surviving my current expedition.
After the first set of switchbacks the incline didn’t exactly level off, but it did reduce enough that my heels started to touch the ground again. And now I was high enough to enjoy the view. This being springtime, the view was spectacular. And as I moved on, it just got better. The sound of rushing water was constant as snowmelt poured through the valley. Recent heavy rains added extra runoff, creating small streams and waterfalls at random intervals all along the trail. At one point, water actually diverted down the trail, forcing me to tromp through it in order to continue on. The crisp water actually felt good as it soaked through my shoes. I began to enjoy myself so much that I forgot that my leg muscles were about to rip through my skin.
At just over two miles of continuous uphill hiking, according to my gps watch, I reached a small wooden bridge that crossed over waterfalls to the other side of the canyon. As I paused to take a couple of pictures with my phone, I realized that I couldn’t get my legs to stop wobbling. A small voice of common sense broke through the euphoria of standing amid natural wonders and I realized that the ten mile round trip wasn’t going to happen. At least, not yet. I forced myself to turn away from the awesome-looking trail ahead and turned back. At least it would be all downhill from here.
As it turns out, that’s a stupid saying. After struggling to climb uphill, going downhill is about the most dangerous thing you could do. I think I would have rather kept climbing. What was beautiful going up, became treacherous going down. An entirely different set of leg muscles, ones that I rarely ever used, fought my control. The other muscles were too tired to back them up, so I half crept, half skid back down the mountain. Precarious though it was, I made it back.
As I climbed back in my car, gasping for breath between sucking down water, I chanced a glance at myself in the rearview mirror. A big goofy grin was plastered on my face. That’s when I knew that I’d be back. Just as soon as feeling returned to my lower extremities.