It was also about this time that S realized her snazzy looking hiking boots, which had stood her in good stead the last time we'd hiked here, were now, oh, about a half size too small. For those of you who've never experienced the nuisance of too-small hiking boots while on a steep and slippery downhill with a kitchen sink's worth of knick knacks on your back--well, I recommend it, especially if you're into self-abuse. Middle-aged self-abuse (say, isn't that redundant?).
As I write this, it's half a year later, and I'm remembering what good fun we had last time, completely ignoring S's bruised toenails, which still haven't fully healed, and my still occasionally sore lower back, and the innards of my 35mm camera, permanently coated with Canyon grit. I'm thinking we'd better make our hiking reservations pretty soon, or we won't get our choice of campsites.
Yeah, after a dozen (13? I've lost count) trips into Cañon Grande, never once getting it right, maybe it is time we tried another hiking venue.
But this theme appears frequently throughout my hiking journals. Why change and give up my protestations now?
Here you have the story of four people like you--people who walk into door jambs while talking, people for whom a hike means going to the mailbox without a car (we are country folk, after all), people who cry over spilt milk, people just like you--who began to stumble through nature, unreasonable but beautiful nature, and lived to enjoy it ... and want to do it again.
If you're a flaming slob, supermacho or fretmatic, maybe you should stay home. If you're an humorless enviro-freak, earth-god bliss ninny or outdoors anal compulsive, put the book back now. And, please, if you don't like fun, this book will self-destruct in ten seconds. And you'll deserve it.
We'll see the rest of you in the desert.