Times slid and fell on butt in snow: 3
Times swore under breath: like a hundred
Times cried like a little baby: 2
Quantity awesome views: Infinite
Times swore under breath: like a hundred
Times cried like a little baby: 2
Quantity awesome views: Infinite
So the A-team is a group of friends and colleagues of mine who take on very challenging hikes. They hike in all weather; they hike year-round. They hike 10-20 mile hikes that are meant to stretch even the experienced hikers who lead the group. The hubby had come limping and grinning back from at least one A-team hike in the past, but up 'til now I'd had the sense to stay at home in my cozy bathrobe. That was about to change.
I don't know, as the girl who got picked last for kickball every jr-high P.E. day, maybe I just wanted to be part of the A-team. But as the last 5 years or so have probably been the most athletically minded of my life, I thought it was the right time to test my endurance. And so yesterday, I embarked on my first A-team hike with a small group of just 3, myself, the hubby, and our leader who will be called from here on The Mountaineer.
Mile 0-0.5 - It is March, and it snowed yesterday, but the temperature at the trailhead at 9:30 a.m. is already creeping into the 50s. We quickly pass the highway-side area of the trailhead that is littered with . . . uh, litter . . . and move into the quiet woods. We are happy and chatty. "How's this pace," The Mountaineer shouts back to us. "Fine. We're fine." We shout back. We pass the Apple House shelter, where a hiker still naps in his sleeping bag. How promising - a lazy trot to the top, perhaps?
Mile .5-1.5 - When winds whip through the trees in a snowy woods, you typically expect them to be chilling - particularly when you're not wearing a jacket. The breezes we encounter are warm and utterly inviting. We shed our outer layers; I am in a tank top. We ooh and ahh over beautiful icicle displays that dangle from overhangs like organ pipes. "Pace still good? Feet okay?" "Fine, we're fine."
1.5-2.5 - I'm starting to breathe pretty hard, but you know, I want to prove myself! And we have a stop at Doll Flats upcoming at the 3 mile mark. I am pushing, but I let Jeff pass me. "Don't worry. I'll be right behind you."
2.5-3 - Here's the thing about me as a hiker. I'm kind of a stop-every-quarter-mile-for-a-breather kind of girl. I'm an it-ain't-no-thing-if-it-takes-an-extra-hour-as-long-as-we're-comfy style expeditioner. It occurs to me, around mile 2.5, that this is not the A-team philosophy. The A-teamers are, apparently, the "Stop along the trail just because we're out of breath? We're losing daylight!" type of group. The first 3 miles of our hike sport a rise of 1700 feet, and around mile 2.5, we begin to encounter ankle-high snow. "No problem, no problem," I keep thinking to myself, as my breath gets a little ashmatic in my chest. "I'll stop for breath when this gosh-darn song stops circling in my head," I consider as a solution to the respiratory shutdown I'm experiencing. The boys are pretty far ahead; my little stump legs can't keep up, and finally, I stop for breath, and fall behind. Hubby keeps me in sight, but I don't catch up 'til we reach Doll Flats.
Mile 3 - Doll Flats - Hubby posits that Doll Flats are "Just beyond the Valley of the Dolls," but Mountaineer indicates that Doll was probably someone's last name. We sit on a big rock and rest, and I devour a power-bar. I suck on my Camelbak tube like a baby's bottle. Mountaineer, perhaps aware of my fundamental weakness as a hiker, asks whether we want to turn back, but that doesn't seem very A-team. We eat, we recover, we water the daisies, and we continue.
Mile 3.1-5.0 - The thing about hiking in snow is that it's really hard. In addition to the continual slip underfoot and the soggy socks, every step requires a little extra effort because, well, you've got to raise your foot over the snow. Before we reached Doll Flats, we were following the trail of a hiker with a dog, so the snow was packed down before us. After Doll Flats, not only does the snow deepen, but the friendly tracks no longer lead us. We are breaking ground. It's supposedly getting chillier, but I don't feel it - my 170-beat-per-minute heart rate is keeping me like a furnace. I've resigned myself to the falling behind, and while the Mountaineer is utterly sure-footed, every step for Clumsy Clara is a potential injury, so my pace slows again. I wonder casually why we ever agreed to this. Typically, the lungs are my primary hiking problem, and yes, all my bronchioles (???) are burning now. But my legs are now reminding me with every step that they did not sign up for this little trek. The ascent, at least, is less steep.
Hubby and I are both panting pretty hard by now. At one point, I actually do the impossible and pass him. We round a corner out of the woods, encounter a stile, and suddenly we see the reason we've been doing all this - we survey an overmountain cow pasture, an astounding near-360 view of the surrounding mountains, and the final bald ascent up Hump Mountain. "Totally worth it," I mutter impossibly, and we forge out onto the open mountainside.
5.1-5.4 - Any hiker could have told you this, but the final ascent is always much longer than it looks from below. The warm breezes we encountered in the woods below are now long gone - instead, frigid winds whip across the balds and push us off the narrow path. My perception is that most of the final 1000 feet of ascent has been saved for this last half-mile, and its on one of these steep stretches of ascent that, oh, surprise, my legs stop. They don't stop working exactly, and I don't collapse; they just utter a big, fat, muscular, nope to my suggestion that they continue walking forward. "No thank you," they say, "We'll just stand here and get whipped by the icicle breeze for a minute." At least, I am encouraged, I don't have to decide when to take my breaks anymore - my body decides for me. Hubby is stopping pretty frequently too, and we can see Mountaineer bobbing in the farther and farther distance, and finally at the summit. I begin counting steps, and finally I can tell I'm within 100 steps, within 50. At the top, we collapse, gasping. Mountaineer offers us dry socks. We can't stay long, because the wind is tearing the skin off our faces.
5.4-10.8 - For the most part, the descent is relatively uneventful, except that we are so very tired. In the snowiest part of the descent, I fall behind again - if Clumsy moves too fast, she just falls down, and I do indeed fall twice. The second fall is on thin snow above rock, and results in some mild eye-wetness - no sprains, no twists, just a very sore butt, and with Hubby's comforting sympathy, I move on. We walk more miles. We descend and descend. We exit the woods.
Our night was spent splayed out on the couch, nursing our wounds and eating pizza. This feels like a continuation of the refusal of my legs to move on the mountain - each time I rise, my body says, "We your parts will only tolerate this for so long. Go back to the couch and stretch us out." And I obey. I obey.
I don't know, as the girl who got picked last for kickball every jr-high P.E. day, maybe I just wanted to be part of the A-team. But as the last 5 years or so have probably been the most athletically minded of my life, I thought it was the right time to test my endurance. And so yesterday, I embarked on my first A-team hike with a small group of just 3, myself, the hubby, and our leader who will be called from here on The Mountaineer.
Mile 0-0.5 - It is March, and it snowed yesterday, but the temperature at the trailhead at 9:30 a.m. is already creeping into the 50s. We quickly pass the highway-side area of the trailhead that is littered with . . . uh, litter . . . and move into the quiet woods. We are happy and chatty. "How's this pace," The Mountaineer shouts back to us. "Fine. We're fine." We shout back. We pass the Apple House shelter, where a hiker still naps in his sleeping bag. How promising - a lazy trot to the top, perhaps?
Mile .5-1.5 - When winds whip through the trees in a snowy woods, you typically expect them to be chilling - particularly when you're not wearing a jacket. The breezes we encounter are warm and utterly inviting. We shed our outer layers; I am in a tank top. We ooh and ahh over beautiful icicle displays that dangle from overhangs like organ pipes. "Pace still good? Feet okay?" "Fine, we're fine."
1.5-2.5 - I'm starting to breathe pretty hard, but you know, I want to prove myself! And we have a stop at Doll Flats upcoming at the 3 mile mark. I am pushing, but I let Jeff pass me. "Don't worry. I'll be right behind you."
2.5-3 - Here's the thing about me as a hiker. I'm kind of a stop-every-quarter-mile-for-a-breather kind of girl. I'm an it-ain't-no-thing-if-it-takes-an-extra-hour-as-long-as-we're-comfy style expeditioner. It occurs to me, around mile 2.5, that this is not the A-team philosophy. The A-teamers are, apparently, the "Stop along the trail just because we're out of breath? We're losing daylight!" type of group. The first 3 miles of our hike sport a rise of 1700 feet, and around mile 2.5, we begin to encounter ankle-high snow. "No problem, no problem," I keep thinking to myself, as my breath gets a little ashmatic in my chest. "I'll stop for breath when this gosh-darn song stops circling in my head," I consider as a solution to the respiratory shutdown I'm experiencing. The boys are pretty far ahead; my little stump legs can't keep up, and finally, I stop for breath, and fall behind. Hubby keeps me in sight, but I don't catch up 'til we reach Doll Flats.
Mile 3 - Doll Flats - Hubby posits that Doll Flats are "Just beyond the Valley of the Dolls," but Mountaineer indicates that Doll was probably someone's last name. We sit on a big rock and rest, and I devour a power-bar. I suck on my Camelbak tube like a baby's bottle. Mountaineer, perhaps aware of my fundamental weakness as a hiker, asks whether we want to turn back, but that doesn't seem very A-team. We eat, we recover, we water the daisies, and we continue.
Mile 3.1-5.0 - The thing about hiking in snow is that it's really hard. In addition to the continual slip underfoot and the soggy socks, every step requires a little extra effort because, well, you've got to raise your foot over the snow. Before we reached Doll Flats, we were following the trail of a hiker with a dog, so the snow was packed down before us. After Doll Flats, not only does the snow deepen, but the friendly tracks no longer lead us. We are breaking ground. It's supposedly getting chillier, but I don't feel it - my 170-beat-per-minute heart rate is keeping me like a furnace. I've resigned myself to the falling behind, and while the Mountaineer is utterly sure-footed, every step for Clumsy Clara is a potential injury, so my pace slows again. I wonder casually why we ever agreed to this. Typically, the lungs are my primary hiking problem, and yes, all my bronchioles (???) are burning now. But my legs are now reminding me with every step that they did not sign up for this little trek. The ascent, at least, is less steep.
Hubby and I are both panting pretty hard by now. At one point, I actually do the impossible and pass him. We round a corner out of the woods, encounter a stile, and suddenly we see the reason we've been doing all this - we survey an overmountain cow pasture, an astounding near-360 view of the surrounding mountains, and the final bald ascent up Hump Mountain. "Totally worth it," I mutter impossibly, and we forge out onto the open mountainside.
5.1-5.4 - Any hiker could have told you this, but the final ascent is always much longer than it looks from below. The warm breezes we encountered in the woods below are now long gone - instead, frigid winds whip across the balds and push us off the narrow path. My perception is that most of the final 1000 feet of ascent has been saved for this last half-mile, and its on one of these steep stretches of ascent that, oh, surprise, my legs stop. They don't stop working exactly, and I don't collapse; they just utter a big, fat, muscular, nope to my suggestion that they continue walking forward. "No thank you," they say, "We'll just stand here and get whipped by the icicle breeze for a minute." At least, I am encouraged, I don't have to decide when to take my breaks anymore - my body decides for me. Hubby is stopping pretty frequently too, and we can see Mountaineer bobbing in the farther and farther distance, and finally at the summit. I begin counting steps, and finally I can tell I'm within 100 steps, within 50. At the top, we collapse, gasping. Mountaineer offers us dry socks. We can't stay long, because the wind is tearing the skin off our faces.
5.4-10.8 - For the most part, the descent is relatively uneventful, except that we are so very tired. In the snowiest part of the descent, I fall behind again - if Clumsy moves too fast, she just falls down, and I do indeed fall twice. The second fall is on thin snow above rock, and results in some mild eye-wetness - no sprains, no twists, just a very sore butt, and with Hubby's comforting sympathy, I move on. We walk more miles. We descend and descend. We exit the woods.
Our night was spent splayed out on the couch, nursing our wounds and eating pizza. This feels like a continuation of the refusal of my legs to move on the mountain - each time I rise, my body says, "We your parts will only tolerate this for so long. Go back to the couch and stretch us out." And I obey. I obey.
Total miles: 10.8
Rise in elevation: 2600 feet
Difficulty level: Hardest hike EVER
Recommended: For the experienced hiker, probably
ideally not in snow. Highly recommended as challenge-
hike with big payoff.
Rise in elevation: 2600 feet
Difficulty level: Hardest hike EVER
Recommended: For the experienced hiker, probably
ideally not in snow. Highly recommended as challenge-
hike with big payoff.
