So I've just worked Friday night, Saturday morning, Saturday night, Sunday morning, and Sunday night. And on my day off?
"Let's go hiking!"
Perhaps not my best idea. There is a difference between taking a walk in the woods and hiking. Normally when I walk in the woods, I breathe deeply, enjoying the smell of pine needles and damp earth, and I move along at a reasonably fast clip, trying to keep up with Kilgore (dog of the long legs), as well as attempting to force Wyatt (he of the barrel-shaped body and corgi legs) to get some actual exercise. I occasionally feel tired after a walk in the woods, but I never feel sore.
Today we decided to hike the Camel's Hump. There are a number of trails in this park, and we picked the one that we thought seemed the most reasonable. Now, in hindsight I will say that the word "strenuous" which was featured prominently on the website about our trail should have given me pause. Unfortunately, I have learned (for the umpteenth time) today not only about hindsight (20/20! It's True!), but also about how the Theory of Relativity applies to distance.
So the Monroe Trail, which ends at the summit, is approximately two and a half miles long. This seems like a perfectly reasonable distance until you realize, possibly too late, that it is almost vertical. Hence, what would normally be a Zen-like stroll turned into a grueling and treacherous test of wills and knees. My deep breaths came only in the form of gasps, usually after either I or Wyatt almost bit it and went face-first into a chunk of boulder or sailing over the edge of a precipice that was too steep to look over. I saw no scenery on the way up or down, unable to see the forest for the wet, muddy, rock-filled (not strewn, mind you- this path was more rock than dirt) trail. My neck is killing me from spending so many hours looking down.
All the while we were being passed in both directions by smiling, fit Vermonters of all ages, many of them at least twenty years older than me. At one point the b.h. and I stopped to rest. After water and a snack, we were talking about how we were uncertain whether to go on. We had both been afraid to ask the people we passed who were on their way down how far we were from the top, but since we had already been going for two hours we figured we must be close. Just then, another couple came along the trail.
"I'd say you're close- what, honey- maybe a quarter of the way to go?" Her husband nodded in agreement. Neither of us wanted to turn back, because at that point not getting to see the view from the top after all that effort would have been too much to bear.
Forty minuted later we reached a clearing. There were signs for several different connecting trails, as well as the one to the summit, a mere .3 miles further. What we didn't know was that the last bit was the most grueling by far, and the scariest. People kept passing us and looking at Wyatt in wonderment.
"How did you get here?" they would ask him, knowing that he was obviously the smartest of the group.
"The real question is how he's going to get down," I would answer, trying my best to smile through the pain and fear.
In the end, Wyatt was unable to make the last climb, which was only ten or twenty feet from the summit. So I sat with him while KG and the b.h. went up. Sat, in fact, in a small puddle, which was just large enough for my entire ass to fit in it and soak thoroughly.
The view from the top was spectacular. Pictures to follow. I only wish it had been earlier and warmer so we could have stayed up there to enjoy it more. As it was it was getting dark on our way down.
The funny thing about the way down is that Wyatt was completely fearless, and outpaced me by a long shot. I eventually stopped worrying and took his leash off so he didn't have to wait up. The last hour of the descent was excruciating, and my knees, ankles and calves are still killing me, but I'm glad we went. The good news is that the boys have been sleeping most of the day. Next time I think we'll opt for something a little less strenuous.