Senior Hiker’s Checklist: Field Notes: What Utah Taught Me

The Wisconsin spring I left behind I still needed a coat and hat. In Grand Staircase–Escalante, I was looking for shade.

Before this trip, I wrote The Senior Hiker’s Checklist: Lessons I Thought I Understood About Staying on the Trail as the Years Go by.

The real question was simpler: could my body still support me?

I came to Utah to test that question. There, the checklist increased by five.

1. The core does not change

It was spring break for many schools and I saw a lot of younger hikers in the canyons. I thought about myself at that age. Before we knew about the hard work of getting older. Pushing past where the shoulder doesn’t want to go, squatting tension that protects the knees, concentration to listen to everything being said at the table. None of that was on my radar then.

I saw an old man and thought: his days in the arena are over.

But I didn’t know that desire doesn’t age.

I am 67 years old. That desire to walk along a ridge against the sky, to ford a frozen stream against the strong push of the current, to descend a mountain into a valley of cathedral trees… I will keep it.

Continental Divide Trail, Montana, 2023.

2. The window is closing

If we are honest with ourselves, we know that our someday has arrived. It’s here. We can lift our foot, take the step, or stay standing and watch the dream fall behind us.

Before this trip to Utah, it had been a year since I had hiked. I compared everything to last time: the tension in my muscles, the tension in my joints, the way my feet landed.

Our bodies are loyal old dogs. They go out of their way to please. They change anyway.

When I got home, I knew this year would be my last chance. If I wanted to hike the AT, it had to be now.

We all face this.

Cody, Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness Area.

3. We carry the pain

The last time I was in Utah, I watched my dog ​​Cody come around a curve, head up and tail wagging, very happy to find me.

He had died the previous month. A hunter shot him and then showed me where. I buried my face in his fur.

Cody joined me at CDT that same year. On the road ahead, turning to see if it was coming. Waiting for me at the place where I stopped to spend the night.

When Cody wasn’t there, I missed him. It was a weight that I carried with great pleasure.

Don’t all older hikers carry someone like that?

Pacific Crest Trail, Yosemite, 2022.

4. We have nothing to lose

What if I’m wrong and my AT window has already closed?

My right knee gives way. The White Mountains prove too much. The road wears me down in a way I didn’t expect.

Utah was easy. I did 8 mile days and only went out 3 at a time. It was a test, not blackmail.

The first time I used the AT, I gave it up after 200 miles. What if, even now, I can’t finish?

I will wake up at dawn and listen to the forest while I wait for the water to boil. I’ll sit in cold rivers with no one else around. I will pass through emerald tunnels and feel the deep rest at the end of a hard day. I will meet people like you.

What have I lost?

Knife’s Edge, Goat Rocks Wilderness, PCT, 2018.

5. The body forgives

Utah reminded me of what my body has endured. The miles, the marks. The cut on my forearm. The incisions healed. The gnawed fingers. The quietest wear and tear on the inside: floaters, arthritis, that stubborn stiffness.

I inhabit a well-used body.

In the mornings, my new knee would make a noise and then settle. My IT band remained silent, mile after mile. In the evening my back relaxed and gave itself easily to rest.

We wake up and the body responds.

_________

On the way home, I stopped in a field in Nebraska to spend the night. With the back seat down, mat and quilt laid out, I hoisted my backpack onto the passenger seat and then crawled back. I looked at the stars through the open window.

There was a gust of wind. My nose was cold and the rest of me was warm under the quilt. Desert dust covered the board.

I left it there.

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