Perched in our campsite over Chicken Spring Lake, my husband, Dan, and I were luxuriating in one of them. We had opted for a rest day, with nothing more taxing on our agenda than a desultory stab at cleaning our gear. We lazed around, admiring the upside-down mountainsides as they danced in the reflecting pool of our upcountry tarn. Down the trail, a couple approached, climbing slowly. You can tell a lot by a way someone walks, even from a distance.
Some people stride, others amble.
Some work at the mountain, others flow with it. Watching these two hikers, the word that came to mind was trudge. They seemed oblivious to the sky or the lake or the stark rock cliffs. She was tugging on the shoulder straps of her backpack, pulling them forward in an exhausted gesture I recognized all too well. He wore an expression that tottered somewhere between annoyance and frustration.