It's the thick of summer. This means I've been, let's say, gently prodded into participating in outdoorsy vacation adventures that test my mettle and push the limits of my generally even nature.
Fun!
This year, we headed to the opposite corner of the country, Washington state, to visit family. We took an incredible whale-watching cruise, went up the Space Needle, shopped in Pike Place Market and spent plenty of time in the city. On the last day, we drove about an hour away to... hike.
Fun!
Despite my genuine care for the environment and appreciation of natural splendor, I would be lying if I claimed to be a skilled outdoorsman. I fare better on wine patios than in settings that require endurance and cured meat sticks in backpacks. Simply put, I would die first in "The Hunger Games."
But I WANT to push myself, reach spiritual ascendency, commune with the earth's precious offerings. I WANT to be a person who can go toe-to-toe with the other members of my pack who take naturally to navigating tree roots that, I'm sorry, are DESIGNED TO TRIP PEOPLE. Like, why do the roots need to stick out of the path in a little shoe-swallowing arch? Is it my fault if my foot goes right in the FOOT-SHAPED HOLE?
Nature always teaches me something about the absence and presence of humanity. With a brain free from digital stimulus, thoughts flow more freely. The behavior of passersby becomes magnified by a billion.
Here's what I composed in my head on the trail up to the ominously named "Rattlesnake Ledge." The trail was two miles each way, the first leg being alllllll the way up with almost zero relief. The Washington hiking guides called this "moderate," and as someone who lives mere feet above sea level, I disagree.
No romance
Yes, the woods are a romantic setting. By all means, hold hands with your beloved when the path is clear. Skip together, make eyes, swoon. But when you see, for instance, a struggling, heavy-breathing person approaching with a meat stick, you must fall into a single-file line and make room. I promise, you can canoodle again very soon.
No horseplay
This one goes out to a certain type of young male hiking with friends. They are teeming with testosterone and an inexplicable urge to push each other while laughing and saying, "BRO, BRO, BRO, BRO, BRO." Sweet lads, I get it. These confusing feelings will simmer down in time. However, there could be a heavy-breathing person with a meat stick walking by, and WE ARE ON THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN.
No ambient EDM at the top of the mountain
Look, I don't want to police anyone's art, but I fear the act of reading the room has been lost. Multiple people were toting portable jam bones blaring all types of music. The folks trotting by weren't so bad; as my husband said, scares the bears away. But when we finally reached Rattlesnake Ledge and sat down to breathe and enjoy the stunning views, everyone's peace was promptly disrupted. Some yahoo rolled up with a jam bone blasting sounds one might hear at 3 a.m. in the sobering-up tent of an electronic music festival.
Husband politely asked if he'd turn it down, and the guy said, "WHY? I BROUGHT IT UP HERE." Another nearby person chimed in that he also didn't want to hear this music at the top of the mountain. With tensions reaching high altitudes, I gnawed my meat stick and pictured a viral tragedy unfolding.
Who was going to push first? Who was going to BRO, BRO, BRO themselves 2,000 feet into the abyss? Who among us was going to have the lamest "Hunger Games" death of all? Who would perish on Rattlesnake Ledge listening to Diplo?
Bro was outnumbered. He turned down the jam bone and wandered off to another part of the ledge with two girls who looked sufficiently horrified, probably overcome with an irreversible ick. Then, at last, we breathed in God's green glory, and I forgot we had to go back down.
Fun!
