On a recent July Saturday, Greg Harrell and I hiked up one of the
recently-exposed Sugar Fingers of Sugarland Mountain. Within ten minutes I knew
that I had made a big mistake. I had just returned from a week-long fishing
trip in which we normally got to sleep about 4am and awakened about 10am, or
11am on a good day. So I wasn’t well rested. It was a hot, humid, summer day on
an exposed, sunny ridge – and I don’t do well on hot days, probably due to
touch of heat stroke in my younger days. I also felt nauseated for some unknown
reason, perhaps related to cheeseburgers and copious amounts of white cheddar
popcorn. I had spent three hours pushing a lawn mower the day before, so I was
lethargic and had a few yellow jacket stings as mementos of my day in the yard.
And last but not least, I was only a day away from turning 62, so, well, you
know.
To make a long story short, I spent the whole day wishing I’d either
get well, or just die and get it over with. Unfortunately, I survived, but just
barely, which was the worst of all possible outcomes. I had to stop for a five-minute
rest stop every couple of minutes. So I managed to transform our four or
five-hour frolic into a nine-hour death march. I had brought enough water for a
five-hour hike, so I ran out of water about half way through the day. So let’s
add dehydration and leg and arm cramps to my list of woes. It’s possible that I
may have done a little whining.
I spent the whole day talking to the mountain, begging it to kill me
or revive me. I told it “It’s not you, it’s me,” but neither of us believed it.
I hated the mountain and it hated me. I try not to use profanity in my day to
day routine, but sometimes it’s necessary to make the point, and today was one
of those days. On several occasions I told the mountain what I thought of it in
no uncertain terms. It responded like a parent who has run out of patience with
his irresponsible son, determined to make me suffer the consequences of my poor
choices. A therapist might call this an “asymmetrical relationship” in which
one person has all the power and the other has none. As I may have already
mentioned, there may have been some whining on my part.
Even though I didn’t think so at the time, the mountain was also fabulous.
This Sugar Finger ridge was open and rocky and scary and dirty and sooty. There
were burned trees and rocks and ground everywhere. There were rocky outcrops,
some of which were scary, maybe even deadly in a few places. The dominant
colors were brown, gray, and black, with only an occasional hint of green.
And, as always, the views up and down the Sugarlands valley were
magnificent. Not only did we have an unmatched view of the Chimney Tops, the
other Sugar Finger ridges were wild and rough, as were the cliffs and canyons
between them. We spent a few minutes watching a peregrine falcon chasing a
raven. A sure sign that you are in a wild, rocky place is a territorial falcon
who has laid his claim and is willing to defend it. [To be continued]
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