Go Climb A Mountain

I am writing this blog from the perspective of a bed potato. Bed is more comfortable than a couch when I watch TV.

In my twenties – the 1960’s to you – my friend John, whom you met in “Catch the Up Elevator” a few weeks ago, somehow persuaded me to join him on a three day backpacking trip. I understand that a backpack today is a miracle of lightweight construction and rests on your hips for support, but in those days it was just plain awkward and heavy.

John loves the Sierras, and we drove to a trailhead which began west of Lone Pine. We emptied everything from the trunk of my car into our two backpacks, mostly John’s, then he fiddled with mine until it was only twenty pounds too heavy, and we set off on our sweaty adventure. I will admit that John was quite helpful, especially in assisting me to step through the stream which crisscrossed our path. I did not fall in. I did not want to spend the night in a wet sleeping bag.

We camped at more than 9,000 feet. The night was cold, and had you been watching from one of the pine trees swaying over me you would have seen the tip of my nose poking out from the warmth of my dry sleeping bag.

In the morning, after we enjoyed our breakfast of reconstituted eggs and salty bacon, John pointed to the nearby mountain.

“You see that trail? It leads up to Army Pass, a little over 12,000 feet.”

“Uh huh.” I was thinking that today would be a wonderful opportunity to rest up for tomorrow’s hike back to the car.

“Alan, let’s hike up that trail – there’s a great view at the top.”

“John, I’ve seen great views when I only needed to park my car and walk twenty feet.”

“It’s only a two hour hike. And we can take a day pack with a few first aid supplies and lunch.”

“Right. A day pack. With first aid supplies.”

“Alan, I’ll carry the day pack.”

What an incentive! Didn’t he know that the climb would either end soon after it started because I couldn’t continue, or, at best, with both of us shivering near the top an hour after sundown and stuck there for the night. And did those first aid supplies include a doctor and a hospital?

“We’ll walk at your pace, and stop whenever you need to. You can go ten feet at a time. We’ll turn around anytime you want to.”

That sounded like his final offer, and I don’t know why but I heard myself say, “OK.” It was probably the altitude and my lack of oxygen from waking up gasping more times than I could remember during the night.

“All right. I’ll try it.” I didn’t know then that people with goals use people without goals. Thanks, John.

I was astounded three hours later when we reached Army Pass at the top of the trail. I had never even attempted such a climb before. And I did it. I hiked to the top. I was elated. Maybe, again, it was that oxygen deprivation.

We admired the view for an hour or two, devoured a well deserved lunch, then hiked down the scree-covered (loose rocks) slope back to our base camp. I used to have dreams in which I ran as fast as I could, leaped into the air, and flew hundreds of feet before gliding back to earth. My cakewalk down the scree was as near as I have ever come to flying while awake.

Since then I have climbed a number of mountains, almost all metaphoric. But there is a difference now. I know that I can do it.

Next Tuesday: For the past eighteen years I have been the editor and publisher of Rattle, a respected literary magazine with a large subscriber base. Next week you’re going to find out “Why I Hate Poetry.”

Alan