I climbed Mount Timpanogos.
I'll let that sink in for a minute.
Maybe that doesn't mean much yet. I'll explain a little more. I'm not what you would call athletic. In fact, I'm a Wuss, emphasis on uss and an inherent, sad little whimper in the w.
For the good part of a year, I went to the gym regularly. At least two times a week, sometimes four! Or five! I'd like to think this is what people refer to as a lifestyle change, rather than what I fear it was: an anomaly in a life doomed to sedentary-ism. After climbing Mount Timpanogos, I slipped out of the gym habit, and as of this writing, it's been about seven months since my last visit. I've optimistically kept my membership though. Hope springs eternal and other clichés.
David, my husband, sold the day hike of Timp as a "warm up" for an overnight hiking trip to the Narrows in Zion National Park. This gave me the impression that it would be a "warm up." I'm numbering the mistakes I made on this trip, so that is mistake number one. A "warm up" is supposed to be a gentle introduction to prepare you for a more strenuous endeavor. Excuse me while I have a laughing fit that might induce vomiting.
Because of all the trips to the gym, I had the impression that I was in decent physical shape. This is mistake number two. Notice a pattern of faulty impressions? After all, I could arrive at the gym in my sassy workout skirt, climb on a piece of equipment, and get my heart rate up into the aerobic zone and keep it there. Sometimes for up to an hour. Cue snickering here. The snickering will make more sense later.
The morning of the hike, we wake up at 5:15 and get all the gear ready. I have a bowl of Cocoa Puffs (Now More Chocolaty Taste!). I have one lone brain cell operating at 5:15. Poor thing doesn't have anyone to make connections with. It needs a myCupid or okHarmony account. My brain's hours of operation are strictly 7:30 a.m. to 10:00 p.m., no exceptions. The one brain cell awake at 5:15 thought Cocoa Puffs (Now More Chocolaty Taste!) were a great start to a 12-hour hike. Breakfast is mistake number three. After all, we were bringing one cheese stick and one yogurt and one ham and cheese sandwich each. How much more food would we need?
David and I slipped into our van. Everything is quieter that early, and I felt so much more aware of myself and how I move in the world with everything still asleep. We drove up Provo Canyon and into Sundance, where the light was drowsy at the bottom of the mountain. At around 6:30, we gathered at the trailhead and started off.
We let my dad lead.
I don't usually accuse family members of conspiracies, but in the aftermath, I'm beginning to think that my dad and my husband plotted to keep the details from me. Once on the trail, I would be stuck. Before the trip, I was profoundly doubtful, but they kept saying I could make it, easy. From their side, maybe they were sweetly trying to be encouraging and supportive. Seeing as my dad and my husband are two of the people I like and trust and love most in this world, it's easy to see why I was an easy dupe. (Do you think that's laying on the blame too thick?) What I failed to factor into my calculations is that they are men. And they are much more fit than I.
My dad eats mountains sprinkled with sugar for a fun afternoon snack. He goes to places like Ecuador to climb volcanoes.
My husband claims he is out of shape, but I've seen his legs. They ripple. There is actual rippling going on there. He doesn't even have to move. He just stands there and there they are, his leg muscles, just rippling away, taunting my cellulite.
Brain to brain, I will take them on and occasionally grind them into the dirt with my super mind rays. Leg muscle to leg muscle... my husband has eight inches in height on me.
They didn't tell me it was 14 miles round trip and that you gain nearly 4,800 feet in elevation (this is according to our GPS, so our numbers might be off). You end up at 11,749 feet. The highest I'd ever been without the blessed assistance of an airplane was a little over 8,000 feet, and that was in the passenger seat of a car. Mistake number four was not asking detailed questions. Always ask detailed questions. I may absorb this lesson eventually. I've certainly had enough opportunities. Today was not the day it penetrated my skull.
Mistake number five: I knew I was the weak link, and I didn't say anything. On the hike was my mom, my dad, David, me, and two teenage boys my parents know who wanted to come along. My mom beats me at arm wrestling. She can beat me in any race. She lifts weights regularly, she is toned and tough and fit, and people regularly mistake us for sisters. I've already described my dad and my husband. And teenage boys, well, we'll just leave them out of the equation, because that's just depressing.
I tried to keep up, but the Cocoa Puffs (Now More Chocolaty Taste!) just weren't enough. I had to take a lot of rests. But I bravely trudged on. Trudging on is the theme of this essay. In case the subtlety gets lost somewhere.
After a few hours, we hit the end of the paved trail and this beautiful waterfall. Do not miss that I just said "AFTER A FEW HOURS." I'm looking up and realizing that we haven't climbed all that high. There's still a lot of mountain left. I knew that somewhere on the mountain there was a lake, called Emerald Lake, so I start the questions. Questions that should have been asked days ago.
"Dad, how far up have we gone?" I'm wheezing like an accordion that needs some oiling and wishing I had lugged up an oxygen tank.
He gets out his GPS. "We've hit 7,800 feet, so we've climbed about 800 feet so far. And we've gone about a mile and a half."
"And how long have we been hiking?" Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze.
He checks his watch. "Two hours."
"How far is Emerald Lake?" I'm thinking it must be getting close.
"Well, it's about three-quarters of the way up the mountain, and it sits at about 10,500."
My jaw drops open. I cannot believe how tired I already am, how nauseous I feel (curse you, Cocoa Puffs (Now More Chocolaty Taste!)), how much I do not want to go any farther, and how far there is to go. By the look on my face, I think everyone expected me to turn around and haul my slightly littler butt home. (It's got to be littler, right? After hiking for two hours?) I had been thinking the damn lake was just around the next turn.
So, we split up. I eat some trail mix (my parents had mercy on us and shared their snacks). I take lots of rests. I put one foot in front of the other. Well, really, one foot above the other. David tells me I can rest whenever I want. Sometimes I can only go ten steps before I have to stop.
At one point, I sit down and look at that mountain, and I'm thinking, I'm going to get to the top, collapse, and cause a huge scene. There are going to be helicopters (if there's enough atmosphere for them to fly up that high) and news cameras and stretchers. I tell David this and almost start to cry, and he tells me that if I make it to the top, he'll carry me down himself. I would be way too freaked out to let him, and it would be really bad for his knees, but it makes me feel a little bit better.
I think of how awesome it would be to point out Timpanogos to the kids and tell them I stood on top of it. Plus, I really wanted bragging rights on Facebook. So I stand up and hobble on.
Every so often we'd see my mom and dad ahead of us, and they really hadn't gained all that much ground, which was encouraging. I had David track our progress on the GPS, which sometimes helped and sometimes made me want to throw it down on some unsuspecting hikers. I can just see it. "Look, Pa, it's raining GPS devices!"
There was this one awful rock field we had to cross, where I almost gave up and turned back around. The rocks were malevolent. They would sometimes seem to rise up toward me a little, and then sometimes slip away. It was horrible. David told me about four times to slow down, but I hated it so much I just wanted to get through it. And then afterward, there was this nice rock to sit on, and some plants and a little stream, and I sat on the rock, and I ate some ham. We had brought the whole package of ham to make our sandwiches, and I had about three slices, and it was the best stuff ever. That rock was magical.
After that, I felt so much better.
So we climb and rest and climb and rest and trudge and rest and climb some more. I tell David he has to talk to me, because I keep thinking of cheesy life-is-like-climbing-a-mountain metaphors and I cannot think the same pedestrian thought over and over anymore.
We hit the elevation where the lake is supposed to be, and while the scenery is stunning, there is no lake. The GPS is lying?
I'm starting to think this lake is mythical.
I'm starting to think I need a pair of ruby slippers and a dog named Toto and a run-in with a tin man to ever make it to this lake. After all, it is named Emerald Lake. And I'm not wearing blue or carrying a picnic basket, and I have never ONCE been to Kansas, so this is just a lost cause. I keep going anyway.
Finally, we get to the lake. My mom and dad only beat us there by 15 minutes. I don't think they expected to see me, and not that soon. We eat lunch (no Cocoa Puffs (Now More Chocolaty Taste!) in sight), and I'm feeling pretty good.
I knew if I could get to the lake, I could get to the summit.
After a little rest, we set off again. People coming down give us encouragement, which helps a lot. There's a shack on the summit, and I see it come closer and closer each time I look up, but it still feels impossibly far.
My mom is wearing a pink shirt, and I can see her on the summit. When I make it, I almost don't realize it. For some reason, I thought the shack was a bit below the top. Then I realize I have made it, and I know I'm grinning from ear to ear, a little Jack Skellington-like. The view from the top is expansive. We snap a few pictures, then decide to head down. Turns out, there's not much to do on the summit of a mountain besides stand around awkwardly for a few minutes, thinking about how great you are.
We don't go down the way we came. Instead, we go along a ridge on the front of the mountain, intending to slide down the glacier, which, quite frankly, scares the bacteria out of my colon.
I'm none too fond of heights, but I wasn't frightened the whole day until we started along the ridge and my mom started letting out little squeaks of fear. I'm an adult, but not so much of an adult that seeing my mom frightened doesn't send the bacteria fleeing my colon all over again.
So I said, "Mom, I'm scared of heights too, and you're making it worse. Sometimes when you're the mom, you have to be brave for your children." I don't know why I had to explain this to her. As someone who has killed spiders in front of my children and never once let them know I would rather face a demon zombie horde, I thought this was something all parents learned and applied automatically as needed. She said she would try. I could still hear little squeaks, but I felt less like she was about to fall to her death and take us all with her.
We get to the glacier, take off our CamelBaks, and basically sled down on them. I used my heels to control my speed and my hands as a rough rudder. Not too nice on the hands, but it worked. On the way down, I lost the trail mix my mom had given me at the summit and my nice expensive sunglasses off the top of my hat. Mistake number six. I also sat on my ham and crackers, which I find hilarious.
The girl behind us was freaking out all the way down the ridge, then freaking out as they prepared to slide, then screaming and crying the whole way down. Her boyfriend or husband was so patient with her. But I don't know what she wanted him to do. They were past the point of no return (cue Phantom of the Opera music here). You just have to suck it up.
This was a lesson I was about to have hammered into my head, with the subtlety of an Acme anvil, over the next kabillion steps.
Getting to the top is one thing. Getting down is quite another.
Have I mentioned the biggest mistake of the day yet? I don't think I have. My shoes were unequivocally the Wrong Shoes. Let's call that mistakes number seven, eight, and nine. I didn't own hiking shoes, so David told me to wear my most comfortable, broken-in running shoes.
The thing is, shoes don't like me and never have. They don't care that I love them. My love is definitely unrequited. I have wide feet, so any shoe that fits me across is too long, and going downhill, my feet slid forward and my toes slammed into the front of the shoe with every single step. For miles.
The last three miles were torture. My legs did not like going down. I stumbled more. I stubbed my right big toe on a hidden rock. It felt like the entire bottom of each foot was one big blister. By the end, I was walking behind David, holding on to the handle of his backpack for balance, like a very tired, very large toddler.
And then, finally, we made it to the car, eleven and a half hours after we started. I sat down and took off my shoes. Both big toes were black and blue, and the bottoms of my feet were bruised. But I had made it all the way up and all the way back down in one piece. No broken bones. Zero sprangs or springs. I didn't even fall down once.
It was the hardest thing I've ever done physically, besides giving birth. (And for those, I had an epidural and did not have to go up 4,800 feet and then back down 4,800 feet.)
A few days later, a doctor put holes in my toenails to relieve the pressure, and I spent the rest of the week hobbling around with both big toes wrapped in giant green bandages. Totally worth it.
Then I went home and started writing this and was really mad to discover I'd only climbed the second-highest peak on the Wasatch Front.
Apparently Mt. Nebo is the highest peak.
That really ticks me off.