This was my first real hike after moving West. (One dare not say 'hike' in the West unless it is a massive undertaking. An anal bookkeeper questioned my use of the word 'hike'. Another acquaintance, in Texas, made me feel better when he defined most American's definition of hike, especially town or city dwellers: a hike is anything off the beaten path, no concrete, plain and simple.)
My 2.7 mile hike turned into 5.57 miles. Choosing the shorter hike (rating: Easy), does NOT mean easy. People around here are freakishly fit. While getting physical therapy on my ankle several weeks back, I mentioned this to the doctor. Oh, yeah, she said. Eighty year olds come in needing therapy because they "hurt" and want to get back on their skis. They just don't know why they hurt so much. (Oh my gosh-the young folks are hurting!) Amazing people.
So, with this in mind I begin the hike, plenty of water. No food. Short hike.
The hike isn't easy. I needed cleats, or all terrain tires, anything but tennis shoes. Going up the mountain is relatively painless. Coming down, not so much. Engaging muscles I did not know I have, I make it to an access point. Not MY access point. Somewhere along the line I missed a turn. Someone told me I came off the mountain too soon. The heck you say. I'm dying, out of water, and freakin' muscles in my legs are raising nine kinds of hell. I'm not off the mountain too soon. Just in the nick of time, in MY mind.
I ask a lady in a little neighborhood for directions (yes, a neighborhood). She tells me it will take me about twenty minutes to reach my car... I nearly wept. I wanted to beg her to put her child back in the car seat and please give me a ride. PLEASE. But I was wearing my Texas A&M cap. And an Army sweatshirt, Echo Battery. I can't embarrass my home state and my military kids. I keep walking. Twenty minutes my butt. Keep walking. I'm out of water. Keep walking.
Somewhere along the way to Wyoming, I lost my conditioning. I'm a marshmallow. Soft and whiney. Just for the record 2.7 mountain miles can't be the same as 2.7 track miles. Or treadmill miles. Research, please, to back me up.
I do not own enough ice bags tonight.
(I was dying. Not really. I was exhausted. The little deer in the picture was in the neighborhood. Come here little deer, mama needs a ride.)
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