Choosing My Own Adventure
I scared myself silly climbing a mountain (and I’d do it again).
We bumped along a rutted dirt road in a rented SUV, parking a quarter mile from the trailhead leading to the summit of Mount Democrat. The four of us hoisted backpacks stuffed with water, food, dry socks, and extra clothes onto our backs. The thin, 38-degree air nipped at exposed hands and faces. Winded by the walk from the car to the trailhead, even my more experienced friends worried that our less than 24 hours at altitude had not been enough time for our sea-level dwelling bodies to adjust. I bean to sweat, and not just from the exertion.
Up
Up. Up. Up. We scrambled over loose rocks, gravel, and dirt for a mile and a half. This, I began to realize, was not hiking; this was CLIMBING.
My friend, a confident runner and excellent athlete, strode ahead with her husband. Her cheerful yellow visor bobbed like a beacon in the distance as I placed one careful foot in front of the other. An injury to my hip slowed me down, spiking pain down my leg whenever a rock unexpectedly slid out from under my foot. Still, I grinned. The crisp air and the sight of wildflowers nodding their petals atop a thick carpet of moss invigorated the climb. That is, until we hit 10,000 feet. Here, no more vegetation would grow. Rocks, coppery…
