On Pushing Myself to Hike

I awoke to the sound of a gentle snore – my own. I’d sat down for a brief rest along the Franklin Lakes trail, and there I was, dozing against a tree trunk.

This was the very trail I’d hiked with my daughter a few years earlier, when the altitude hit me the same way. Once we’d started up the switchbacks, I’d found myself repeatedly stopping to yawn, the yawns expanding almost to sleep. We’d meant to camp at Franklin Lake; instead, we made it just to the intersection. In the morning, waking to a frosting of new snow (it was October), we stowed our loads behind a rock and continued up to the lake at 10,000 feet.

Now I was hoping to repeat the same hike. Without a big pack, it should have been easy – but it wasn’t. Altitude struck at just the same place. Eventually I made it to where we’d camped, but that was as far as I could go.

Coming down, able to think more clearly, I found myself wondering what pushes me to keep going. Why, when it was so difficult to hike, was I not home watching television like everyone else?

By the time I reached the car, I’d written a whole essay about it. But apparently that’s as far as I got – it never reached the page.

That was a year ago. This past weekend, I hiked to White Chief Meadow, and I found myself re-writing the same essay in my head. Once again, the altitude hit me before 8,500 feet. Altitude isn’t really a matter of fitness – even the most athletic hiker can be affected. I’m never fast, but I do have strong legs and lungs. And yet, there I was, stopping for no reason, trying to convince myself to take another step.

Eventually I reached my favorite juniper, precariously perched on the ridge, and around the corner was the meadow. I’d reached 9,000 feet. As before, it was easier coming down.

And already, I’m planning the next hike. Can I go a little higher? Maybe. And maybe one day I’ll make it over the passes into the “real” high country.