The Hills Are Alive

The Hills Are Alive

After a five-year hiatus, the back of my Forester was once again loaded with my tenting gear. Probably had more than I needed. I would sort it all out once I got ready to head up the trailhead. My newly licensed granddaughter, Chris, was going to drop me off so I wouldn’t have to leave my not quite vintage Subaru unattended, even though there was only a slim chance it would be vandalized. She was glad to have the use of the SUV while I was in the mountains. I planned to be gone for a week. She’d be back to take me home in time for both of us to attend her younger brother's concert.

Chris was quite comfortable driving, alleviating any lingering hesitancy I had about her use of the Forester while I was gone. Even the hairpin turns were no problem. Perhaps it might even belong to her, once I finally turned-in my keys for good. So, I just sat back, relaxed, let her pick the songs. For some reason, Queen, was her favorite group.  We were merrily on our way to the melody of I Want To Break Free. Trailhead, here we come!

At 80, I was still able to backpack my supplies and tent. Prednisone was the miracle drug, at 7mg a day, which brought back the mobility I thought I had lost. With that dose, I had been holding off the disabling effects of polymyalgia rhumatica, now, for about a year and a half. Escalating my exercise routines also contributed to my being in shape. It goes without saying my weighing in at 170 (rather than the 223 the scale shouted out to me three years ago) was a contributing factor to my hiking readiness, as well.  My son, Pete, eventually embraced the idea the trip was not a foolhardy venture for his old man. In fact, he was disappointed that his schedule didn’t allow him to come along.

The first eight hours of my trek along the switchbacks brought me a comfortable nine hundred feet higher from where I began. Confidence and the loss of any hesitancy accompanied me that first day up the side of the mountain. A clearing about two hundred feet off the beaten path, as they say, offered an unusually level spot to set up a campsite. Only took me 45 minutes to have everything looking like I knew what I was doing. Getting the @$^@ steno working was another matter. Supper by the light of the moon was the first of a few unplanned mixed pleasures which I imagined, and hoped, would mark this trip.

I tossed and turned a bit at first on the thin miracle-foam pad; the extra soft attached pillow finally rested my neck and head comfortably enough to ease me off to the land of Nod. A startling growl in the middle of the night didn’t keep me from falling back to sleep once I reassured myself all was OK. My tired body was tempted to play Rip Van Winkle. I certainly did not want to be overreacting by being wide-eyed and ever vigilant in the wild.

There was an advantage with the clearing being on this Eastern slope. The morning sun began peeking through my tent’s window. The nighttime wind had undone the outer flap. The unexpected light on my face--and a few degrees of extra warmth--served as a gentle alarm clock to get me started. What dawned on me next, surprised me. A strong urge to go off exploring by trailblazing an ascent and return  was something I hadn’t expected.  I heard the call of the wild whispering  seductively to include such an unplanned adventure in my jaunt. 

I had learned as a scout in my younger days how to leave no trace. Learned, as well, how to trek with minimal upsets to the environment from my footfalls. As an adult, it was Outward Bound which fine-tuned those boyhood skills. During six consecutive summers I had ventured with high school students and OB’s amazing instructors on eight-day mountain ascents. That was a few decades ago—but I was confident my skills would reemerge.

 The only hesitancy I toyed with about my current excursion came from recognizing how all by myself I actually was in this unpredictable wilderness. My mind, body and spirit were more than ready; ready enough for me to throw caution to the wind. Well, I did hold on to just a smattering of caution.

I bear-proofed my provisions with a well-placed sling over an even better well-placed by nature set of pine branches, a few yards from where my tent would remain until my return for the evening. Making sure water bottles and purification paraphernalia were both secure and handy; adding a bit of trail-mix and dried apricots for energy; I set off with plenty of layered clothing at the ready in my knapsack.Even though my routinely used Wii-Fit claimed my balance was that of a 50-year-old, donning my open finger gloves, I grabbed two hiking poles and set off to trailblaze.  

After a number of self-designated switchbacks, I came upon an old path some seven hundred feet above my campsite. The path was intriguing, to say the least. Boulders had tumbled down in irregular patterns and rested along the way.Most did not block the path’s whole width. I was able to move along with care, by squeezing past one, then another.We Will, We Will Rock You, left over from the ride with Chris and Queen, took on a different perspective step by step. There were unmistakable signs that Mother Nature was reclaiming what the boulders had not squashed. I needed to pay attention, so as not to trip every once and a while. It seemed obviousI would most likely not encounter other hikers along the way.

Sanctified excrement! (I would have said, Holy Shit, but my Jesuit training sometimes still over-rules even my stressful expletives.) The exposed tree root I tripped on came out of nowhere—I was too obsessed with making sure I would be able to move past the boulders. Not only that, I was also looking around for the cardinals somewhere in the branches up and to my left. Their mating whistles seemed premature since Spring was hardly at hand.  

I closed my eyes and shook my head. What the hell, I said to myself, I’m sliding halfway down the side of this godforsaken mountain. I was hidden, as well—thanks to the shrub oak that stopped me. I was hidden from that hardly ever traversed path just a few hundred feet above. The melodic cardinals were gone, as well—all of a sudden, a deadly silence seemed overwhelming. For sure, there’ no going back now—in fact, there’s no going anywhere unless another hiker or two come along.

Then, it began. A few drops of moisture, which quickly turned from sleet to snow. An even-for-Colorado unexpected blizzard--here at only 9,500 feet--would be eradicating whatever footfall impressions I may have left up on the path above. In about an hour, Mother Nature would ironically leave no trace  of this solo hiker’s having been on the trail.  Not that it really mattered. No one would be coming along singing Val-da-re; Val-da-rah; Val-da-re; Val-de-rah; Val-da-rah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha; my knapsack on my back.

 Shit!(Ah, good old straight-forward Anglo-Saxon coming to the rescue.) 

With a moisture induced shiver, the resulting warm flow down my legs offered only temporary relief from the cold. Another shiver, and I realize my no longer warmed-a-bit legs can’t move.Come to think of it, my right arm under my body isn’t cooperating either. The snap I felt and heard, as I tumbled, when my lower back hit the smaller rough-edged rock on the way down…Ah, fung goo, I shout up to whatever power above might be listening (a phrase I halfway remembered from the Italian neighborhood of my youth serves me well this time).

A few other phrases are also addressed to a God, who after Babel, knows a number of languages. As an on-again, off-again, Catholic, I shouted out with long-lost fervor, words that were certainly not prayers!

I am paralyzed. Even if I don’t freeze to death, I am unable to try to climb back up. This eighty-year-old’s lack of left-arm strength, in what is now my only movable part, has caught up with me.

I won’t be missed until Chris realizes I’m not at the trailhead for her to take me home. How long she’ll wait, thinking I am just late, is anybody’s guess. My body won’t even be found, if at all, until the Search & Rescue folks check out (a day or two after my expected return—as well as depending on if this snowstorm is an early warning of many to come along). They’ll come across what appeared to be an abandoned campsite above the trailhead. Will I just become compost, or a snack for a scavenger omnivore? Can mushrooms grow at this altitude, I perversely wonder?

Mindfulness took over for just a few minutes. Immobile though I was, a count to six as I inhaled, a count of seven while exhaling, was my relaxation go-to exercise. I looked with a bit of wonder at the falling snow. A peaceful smile accompanied this momentary pause as my mind quieted. While I blinked some snowflakes off my eyelashes, the sense of peace quickly abandoned me.

Another shiver. Another warmish evacuation. This time, from the orifice that a number of folks in my lifetime seemed to think best described me. A review of my life flashed through my mind. I found much evidence to suggest perhaps they were correct. On the other hand, twinkling eyes and grateful grins passed before me as well. I recalled a number of folks whose lives intersected with mine in mutually affirming fashion.

Another oh shit  escaped from my lips. I realized I would be closing my eyes for the last time. A final sense of irreverence, which I hoped would not disqualify me at the pearly gates, came to mind. The good Catholic that I used to be wondered who had the last laugh.  A lot of good those multiple years observing the Nine First Fridays turned out to be, I thought to myself, to say nothing of those youthful prayers to St. Joseph for a happy death.

At least, the hills were still alive even if, now, I wasn’t