Date: 2010-06-25
From: Glasgow, Va

To: View Entry
Miles today: 0.0

775 trip miles (about)Two days ago I was climbing High Cock Knob (yes, that's really the name of the mountain) a few miles south of the James River near Glasgow, Va. According to the thermometer on my backpack it was 102 degrees and I was on open rock with just a few rhododendroms providing absolutely no shade. It felt like I was baking and probably because I was. I began laughing because of the absurdity of the situation; I was getting my ass kicked by another mountain, had gotten my ass kicked by a different mountain the day before and the day before that, etc. Tomorrow I would be getting whupped by yet another mountain. What made me laugh was my inability to remember any of their names. I had been getting my butt kicked by at least one mountain a day, often more, and could only remember the names of a few. At 65 the only way to get this hike done is to lace up my boots, put on my pack and plunge forward with my head down - oblivious to any beautiful scenery. Sidetrips to beautiful vistas and waterfalls are not for me; the younger folks spend hours at these places, but I must stay true to the task if I want to finish. Age has made them that much faster. The bastardsThat day, the 23rd of June, I did 17.5 miles before reaching a very old shelter next to a beautiful stream, stopping about 2 miles short of the James River and the road to another resupply in Glasgow. It was a hot. sticky night and lying in the shelter (I sometimes sleep in shelters the night before a town run because I can leave quickly in the morning with less to pack), soaked in sweat and listening to the mice run overhead in the rafters (preparing to jump on my face as soon as darkness closed in, no doubt), I had no inspirational thoughts of the romantic adventure of thru hiking the Appalachian Trail. The next morning while making coffee I decided that the time had come to leave the trail and the life of a long distance hiker. Forever. Although it remains physically possible for me to continue the hike, the rewards are too little and the price too high. I am returning to the relative coolness of Northern Wisconsin, to my small farm and to my family. I've always been some sort of an athlete. As I have aged, some sports have had to drop by the wayside and none of them have been surrendered without a fight. Basketball was my last great love to depart and I finally saw the light at the age of 47 when retiring from the Coast Guard. Getting hurt too easily and recovering too slowly eventually made the cost too high. In the end, my only skill was trash talking, which remains somewhat honed to this day. Backpacking eventually emerged as the sport of choice because no worthwhile athlete every golfs. This is a decision to end this portion of my life and try to figure out how to grow old gracefully...if only just a little. I've wrestled with this whole aging thing for quite awhile, figuring if you never quit playing than you never really get too old to play. That sort of thinking only works for awhile. Future hikes will be limited to nothing over 400-500 miles with plenty of time to hang out at waterfalls and stare wistfully from the tops of mountains. I'm going to ride my bike more, float leisurely down the Namekagon, spend time with my daughter and her family, do a little gardening and continue to work on my old farmhouse. Or, maybe I'll just try to learn how to sleep in. Right now I have to figure out how to get to the airport and catch my flight home.Thanks for caring enough to stop by.