Please don’t take this the wrong way

Well, attempt number 2 of attempting to climb all 115 of the Northeast’s highest peaks on a continuous trail is underway. The oldest Earth guy drops me off at the trailhead for Slide Mountain, and the contrast from last year couldn’t be starker.

The raging torrent I had to cross to get out of the parking lot last time is gone, completely dry. In fact, most of the marked springs in Slide appear to be dry and I’m worried if this is a sign of summer.

It’s a beautiful day, lots of people enjoying nature, and Mountain #1/115 is dispatched quickly.
I’m not worried about the unassuming summit; there is much ahead.

The terrain is rough and rocky, often requiring throwing the poles over a wall and dragging them with your fingernails.

Towards the end of the day, just before reaching the trailhead on the other side of the ridge, I see two younger hikers ascending.

Their backpacks are HUGE, stuffy and bulging from every hole, but I’m not at all judicious. Mine was the same when I started; It’s great that you are here.

Maybe it’s because I’m going downhill and they’re struggling to get up, but I’m surprised and frankly tickled when the man in front says, «Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope to be able to climb trails as difficult as this when I’m up (pause) in YOUR stage of life.”

I reward him with a bright smile and sincerely thank him for the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me along the way.

Maybe it was the comb

As I hit the road and begin traveling toward my first planned destination, I consider what he’s said. Did I really look like that? old? This last year of struggling to recover from an injury has surely hit me hard; maybe it’s the hair? I forgot a comb and my hair is tangled. In any case, it’s a good reminder to say nice things because you never know if it will brighten someone’s day.

I’m back on the familiar trail to Peak 2 the next morning. As I round a bend, I see a bear up ahead sniffing the sidewalk. I still have an empty coffee cup in my hand from the gas station a few miles ago and throw it onto the road. Sure enough, the sound startles him and sends him back into the trees. Older and wiser.

Twists and turns

Hunter is an easier climb than Slide and the fire tower is fun. It will be the last peak for about 100 miles, when the long hike up the road between the Catskills and ADK begins in earnest.

After being devastated by this same section last year, I’m incredibly cautious this time around. I have learned to read the path.

Shifting from side to side in turns helps keep my hips level, as does hugging the grassy shoulder if there is one. I think about how similar life is. Sometimes we must lean into the turns, while other times we must protect ourselves and find a path to cross.

The path is an eye-opener. A place to classify: sorrow and pain there, simple joys here. I’m in my head all day, trying to hold on, straining at the faith it will take to get back into the woods.

For now, I’m just trying to give myself a chance. Talk to people along the way. Sleep in a safe place, untangle the knots in my tennis ball, and do my best to move forward.

I guess that’s all someone at my stage of life can do.

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