(HOST) On one of his last hikes before snow, commentator Willem Lange found himself reflecting on the laws of gravity, and today, he offers what you might call: some tips for upright living.
(LANGE) The fear of falling increases with age. It’s a quite rational fear; old bones break more readily than young, and take longer to heal. Diminishing physical strength accompanies diminishing balance. And finally, it becomes harder to get back onto your feet.
But when a series of surgeons has removed and replaced several joints, and in the process disconnected major nerves, the fear of falling increases exponentially. So my last couple of days of hiking have featured almost nonstop flutters of trepidation and the constant mantra, "Always three points of contact with the earth!"
My two partners on this outing craved spectacular views for their camera, so we chose a trail named the Air Line. It was blazed and cut in 1885 by a quartet of sadists. It’s the shortest route up a tortured ridge toward the saddle between Mount Adams and Mount Madison in the northern Presidential range of the White Mountains. That phrase, "shortest route," reads so innocently in the guide book; as do "becomes very steep for 0.5 mi." and "passes over crags that drop off sharply…." The discerning eye will notice that the distance and the estimated time required work out to about 1000 feet of climbing per mile and an average speed of one mile an hour.
This section of the Whites is the most troubled by trails; they go everywhere. And they’ve existed so long and been so popular that hikers’ feet have worn deep grooves into the soil. Higher up, those same feet have completely worn away the soil, leaving jumbles of boulders that may be exciting for youngsters. But old gaffers have to keep two carbide-tipped poles braced while moving a foot, or two feet braced while moving a pole. That’s where the one-mile-an-hour rate comes from. I found myself reducing the view of the trail ahead to only the boulders directly at my feet.
The Appalachian Mount Club Madison Hut, our destination for the night, was the usual hive of activity – climbers coming and going; some hanging out freshly rinsed duds to dry; others standing in the yard gazing up at the dark, rubbly peaks of Madison and Adams rising steeply from the saddle; one husky fellow soaking a sprained ankle in the icy water of Madison Spring.
Early to bed after supper, but it was not a restful night. My bunk was beside the main trail to the washroom, and after midnight the passage became pretty lively. There were two snorers and one remarkably articulate sleep-talker. So I was up early, writing in my journal by headlight.
We planned to descend to the valley after breakfast by the easy trail, the one the hut crew uses to supply the hut. Idly I scanned its description in the guide book: "…most direct and easiest route…well-sheltered almost to the door of the hut…many portions of its upper section have washed, becoming rocky and rough." Uh oh. Here we go again!
This is Willem Lange in East Montpelier, and I gotta get back to work.