My first summer in the mountains was spent healing a stretched Achilles, dinged cartilage, micro fractures of the talus, and a strained plantar. That was one long summer. The following spring healed and eager to learn about my new home, I'm ready to get outside, hike. This was the beginning of my addiction to mountain living:
Someone suggests an after-work hike.
An after-work hike will be good for you. Go ahead, sign up for an 'easy' group hike. 'Easy' is relative, in the mountains. These people are freakishly fit. While rehabbing my ankle, I ask the doctor if she's noticed this, the exceptionally fit population. Oh yeah, she tells me. We see eighty-year-olds who say they're having a little bit of pain, discomfort, and want to get back on their skis. Seriously? I know eighteen-year-olds who aren't as fit as the unreal geriatric population here in the West. This is how I want to do life.
I don't look up while hiking up the little hill. I don't want to see what's around the next turn. Just keep walking. My new friends are delightful, irritatingly so, chatting as they walk, not gasping for air. One gentleman says he was panting a little bit. Panting? As in childbirth panting? Because that's what I was doing. Almost.
We reach the top; I lift my head. Pure beauty, nothing but beauty. The view is the reward. I'm left breathless, not from the hike, but from the view.
This was one of endless new challenges, basically one foot in front of the other. Over and over again. The benefit is the journey, fitness, and then the magnificent destination, nature.
Pure.
Simple.
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