Hike #3: Mount Tecumseh
Elevation: 4,003 feet
Date: May 4, 2013
Location: The Waterville Valley, NH
Distance: 5.0 miles
Time: 4:00 (48:00/mile)
Wow. I know I started this project as another way to engage with life, and to see how the hikes and my life and the lives of those around me unfold, but this is more intense than what I had in mind, and it’s quicker than I expected big life events to intersect the hiking. Normally, I’m trying to squeeze the most out of life’s moments and entertaining myself as I do it. Maybe I’m entertaining others, too, but either way I tend to be in a pretty good mental place. But as I found myself early into my first hike of the year, I was a mess every which way.
Physically, I was completely out of shape. In the late fall I’d injured myself, and plantar fasciitis and Achilles tendonitis put me on the shelf for five months, aside of skiing. So I had no wind, no strength, and no endurance. I’d only just been able to start exercising again, and my foot was definitely not fully healed. Or, “heeled” as Sara would say, giving herself a mental high five for her pun.
Mentally, I was even worse. My grandmother’s funeral was a couple of weeks earlier, and it was dominating my thoughts, layering over everything I thought and felt, whether thinking about the service itself, the trip west that was partly a family reunion, or all of the thoughts, emotions, and memories that were conjured up. Now, I was going to spend the next several hours with plenty of time to think; the perfect recipe for brooding.
Sara and I had gotten up early to do this as a day trip. We had good conversation during the couple hours’ drive up, and the day was beautiful, superficially lightening my mood. When we arrived at the trailhead at the Waterville ski area, the sun was out, temps were perfect, and spotty snow still clung to the open slopes. Tedy, our lovably dumb and diminutive black lab, tagged along with us.
As we geared up, I set up my trekking poles. I don’t normally use them, but then again my knee doesn’t normally like me by the end of a hike, either. I previously bought a good pair of poles, but the quantity was reduced to one the first time I used them. I was in Vermont and they were strapped to my backpack. One fell off somehow, and I wasted a lot of energy backtracking a mile to look for it to no avail. I hadn’t used the remaining one on future hikes, as I didn’t want to hear its thoughts: “dude, I can’t believe you lost my partner on your first freaking hike using us. Smooth move, Ex-Lax!” Now, armed with a fresh pair courtesy of Santa Claus, I was sure they’d either help or at least stick around for more than one hike!
Once all set, we set out. The first hour or so was spent chatting, but Sara, ever the Sherpa, was forced to carry more than her share of the conversation. It was light and it meandered, like our route which wasn’t a beeline up the mountain but instead had more twists than I’d expect on a one-trail, out-and-back hike. But eventually, like a hike, all routes lead to the same peak. Bad clichés aside, I couldn’t help but feel that this hike was going to force me to a point of processing some negative stuff I’d compartmentalized and not yet let go. I knew it was inevitable. But as a man, I’m hard-wired to suppress feelings and am allergic to emoting.
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| Looking out at the Tripyramids from Mt. Tecumseh, NH. |
As Tedy scrambled along rocks, made his own route, and marked much of Mount Tecumseh as his territory, conversation slowed. I turned inward more. A funeral is always a chance for introspection, but it ups the ante when it’s someone so close to you, and the last of my grandparents at that. When someone dies, I guess it’s natural to wish you’d had more time, more conversations, more chance to demonstrate your love, but those opportunities are gone and you can’t get them back. Some is just maybe guilt that’s part of grieving, and some ties to reminding you to make the most of life so that you don’t live with regrets. OK, I can understand that, but it still sucks, because my Nana was terribly important to me and I don’t have the chance to continue trying to find ways to show that to her.
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| Red Rocks, Rainbows, and (family) Reunions |
Every family has its own unique culture and every deep relationship has its own value and lessons. My grandmother nurtured a culture among her four kids and many of her grandkids that was about stories, laughter, and collective support. We held a family reunion in the Rockies last summer to celebrate her 90th birthday, and dusted off the classic tales (an uncle firing a bottle rocket through the open car window of a friend making out with his girlfriend; another uncle with a mask so scary it can induce incontinence; me getting teased for breaking a windshield golfing; my grandfather leaving his family when a wave rolled in and threatened to wash their purse and wallet away). We also engaged in the friendly debates over alleged embellishments (was my uncle’s bottle rocket accurate from 50 yards or 500 yards? How many people actually wet themselves from the mask? My shot was ten yards straight past the green, with a car picking the worst spot to park, it wasn’t taking a hard right turn and going into the nearby freeway. My grandfather was saving the vacation money from a wave, not abandoning loved ones in the face of a tsunami). We also offered our individual stories since we’d last seen each other, and manufactured new ones such as three generations rocking out to the Doobie Brothers at Red Rocks amidst lightening, double rainbows, and a beautiful sunset. Some of us hiked the Flatirons. And an uncle tried to scare my mother as she came out of a bathroom at a store, only to find that the person he startled was a total stranger. We actively searched out opportunities, and, the laughter, ironically, represented my family’s earnestness about finding ways to feel vibrantly connected.
It’s also weird to have your last grandparent pass away. It’s as if it’s a generational musical chairs moment. One generation is no longer in the game and you shift one chair over, in a way that drives home the passage of time and inevitability of death. For a guy who already probably drives people nuts as he tries to manufacture moments and feel alive, this may not be a healthy reminder.
But this all reinforces a lot of my decisions. I strive to make sure I don’t waste any more time than is required to pay the bills. I want to be on summits with Sara. I want to make up a ghost story with my girls in the glow of a campfire. I want to bond with strangers at an AMC hut, sharing my stash of cinnamon whiskey and learning about their lives. I want to watch Tedy frolicking, eating Tedy Treats (AKA animal poo) that he finds along the trail. Wait… scratch that last one. I want to watch my girls living in the moment as they whoop and chortle skiing in the glades. I want to feel the flow as I pick my mountain biking line to avoid an endo over the handlebars. I want to look back and laugh about the horror one daughter had when she realized that peeing in the backwoods involves no port-o-potty, only to proudly proclaim she just went again a short while later in front of a bunch of strangers as she floated downriver. Or to laugh again, recalling when the Curious George stuffed animal got a little too curious and fell in the toilet, needing to be rescued by me and dried with a hairdryer by my grossed out mother while I dried my kid’s tears. There are plenty of yet-to-exist stories I can rattle off, knowing that skiing with my girls will produce some funny falls, and my desire to be a nuisance when my daughters start dating will lead to some epic moments. So will my emphasis on rock scrambles being fun instead of safe, and on my girls and I still giggling about potty humor (which may lead to a difference of opinion the first time they need to dig a hole with the ol’ fluorescent orange backpack shovel). But the bottom line is that a day in which being alive doesn’t generate anything of note is a waste of one of the precious few days we have on this earth. And living this way carries on a family value, becoming a living tribute to my grandmother, and infusing that attitude in my own kids.
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| Mt. Tecumseh, NH, with Tedy |
I hit the summit of Tecumseh and took in the view. Looking at other peaks – most notably Mt. Osceola, East Osceola, and the Tripyramids – along with endless trees, and miles of nature there for eons, the permanence of it all finished driving home our own fleeting lives. Sara’s observant enough to know that I was in a bad space, but probably didn’t realize the emotional waves that kept washing over me. As we navigated our way back down the trail, Tedy and I began wearing down. The lack of conditioning was taking its toll, and my foot was starting to ache. The poles helped a bit, but blisters were forming on my palms as I swapped one problem out for another.
Partway down, it leveled out a bit. Somewhere around that point, my mind snapped back. All the deep thoughts and emotions were legit, but they really didn’t cover any new ground for me. They just reinforced the whole premise behind my hikes: they aren’t about bragging rights or cardiovascular fitness. They’re about embracing and sharing a life filled with stories, and I should feel proud of that commitment. My improved mental state might’ve been from letting go of things. Or, it might’ve been from breaking through the snowpack repeatedly. For a split second, falling through generated an “oh no! The earth’s not there anymore!” reaction, along with trying to jump out quickly, in case there’s water or monsters underneath. Then I’d laugh at my melodramatic responses, taking myself less seriously. I watched Sara in front of me and smiled, appreciating how she’d supported me in the last few weeks and gently nudged me to again be forward-facing (when not falling down in the snow).
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| First hike of 2013 in the "done" column! |
When we got back to the truck, I found Sara had a secret surprise. She’d subtly stashed a small cooler with two après hike beers in it. As we leaned against the back of the truck, toasting and drink Sam Adams’ new and yummy-delicious Porch Rockers, I felt that I could move past some of those emotions. I could carry my Nana’s lessons, memories, and spirit forward, but strictly as a positive. With one last glance at Tecumseh and a “you’re still with me” silently offered to her, we headed out and talked about what adventures might lay ahead this season.
See you on the trail,
Jay Bell, AKA Rock Hopper
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| Carrying her legacy and lessons with me. |
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