I tried to climb a mountain and all I got to show for it was cancer.
The path at this point isn’t too strenuous. The chilly October air makes it fairly pleasant, like exposing your face to a sunny day after playing in the snow. My stride starts off firm and in step with my family, my wife and son walking together just ahead of me. At this stage in the hike it’s all smooth forest trail, albeit one that zig-zags back and forth as it scales the side of the hills facing Highway 105. The sound of cars finally fades after a half hour and the only sounds are our footsteps and the mountain. Looking up I realize my family has disappeared. It’s actually happened a few times but now it’s starting to bother me. I’m sweating and breathing hard, but I recover quickly. This is the easy part, I think to myself. How’s it going to be when I get past the spring?
The steep grade shouldn’t bother me so much, but it does. Heart pounding in my chest, clear and persistent as drumming at some tribal gathering, I resolve to keep pushing. Backing out this early in the hike damn sure isn’t an option. I’d spent over two years battling tendinitis and fevers to reach this point. My last attempt lay like a steaming pile of poo in a back corner of my mind, a reminder I didn’t measure up. While I finished that hike I wouldn’t say I finished strong.
Building the stamina and strength to make the journey obviously wasn’t enough, I thought. Not nearly enough. Ahead lay over four more miles of rocky trails, ladders, ropes, and boulders. The anger welling up inside tasted like bile, which I promptly spit out as my mouth turned into a tasteless cotton factory. It slowly dawned on me this would not be another successful scale of Grandfather Mountain.
The trail twisted ahead, hiding my family again from sight. Trudging along, my back damp on the inner layer, I puzzled over the cause of my fatigue. The last six months I’d worked on my health, tried to eat right, made sure I kept active. I couldn’t call it true training, but it should have sufficed for this task. Now I began a series of challenges in my mind. Each goal consisted of a promise to reach a notable point on the trail. Ahead lay Shanty Springs, the last potable water spot on the hike. My shirt clinging to my chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath, I rounded the corner and smiled at my family before I collapsed on rock. We took a break.
Drinking from Shanty Springs is a tradition. Today was my son’s first attempt at the hike, so we wanted him to get the full treatment and swallow frigid mountain water. We refilled our bottles and ate a handful of gorp. This time they both looked at me, assessing me. But maybe I imagined that. Hiking is solitary, even when done in a group. Hiking with family can be harder I think. Thoughts run wild and free on a hike. Reflection is key to a gratifying journey up a mountain, which means one tends to dwell on their life; that includes dwelling on family.
Had I overdressed? Certainly! Was it weighing me down? Probably. Could I make it the next 4 miles to the top? Struggling to be honest with myself, I thought sure. But not easily.
Since college I’ve hiked Grandfather Mountain around 10 times. Each time it gave me some of the most intimate and cherished memories of my life. All of them except one were with my wife, making Grandfather something of a mystical place for us. We even renewed our vows at the top during a storm at year 10. So dying on this mountain was right out.
But over the last three hikes they’d gotten progressively harder. I tried telling myself my age conspired to rob me of my youth. But I knew better; something was wrong. Something deep inside of me began to tremble and while I didn’t feel anything break, I heard a distant cry and it echoed in my brain the rest of the day.
Ahead of me lay the boulder strewn side of the mountain where your pole gets caught and your neck develops a crick from constantly craning upward to see how far you are from the top. Your arms begin to tremble as you descend yet another set of ladders strapped to the side of the mountain. It’s a strenuous climb, not meant to be easy, but it’s not a death march, which was how it began to feel.
Over and over my family disappeared around a corner, presumably to wait for me as I clawed my way up and over each boulder, swatting away yellow jackets until my nose became a launch pad for suicidal sweat beads. Stopping every two or three minutes to keel over and spit out more phlegm, I’d whisper or curse myself till I began again. It’s frustrating because I love this mountain. There are crevasses strewn with rocks and desperate laurels wedged between boulders with tufts of grasses tucked into crannies. The wind grabs and shakes you while the sun embraces you, reinvigorating you.
When it’s cloudy you can stand near Calloway Peak in front of a split in the mountain as wind drives vapor through the opening. Waves of clouds stream through, bathing you in the breath of the mountain. It smells tangy from pines, sweet from mountain flowers and decaying vegetation. The crisp air dries your face and you shudder as the sun returns. It transports your soul and body before it drops you back to the present. I always come away alive with energy.
Not today.
My hat, long since soaked, lay like a used sauna towel across my skull. The inner shirt rest like a second skin against my first. The outer shirt, made of one of those synthetic blends that evaporate quickly, thankfully kept me protected. As I leaned against the hiking pole I had two thoughts. The first one was:
I’m gonna die!
We stumbled into the park atop the mountain in late afternoon, far too late to make the return trip. It became evident we needed a favor so while my wife begged a ride to the bottom of the mountain, I rested at the top, ate a protein bar, and considered my situation. Obsessed with finding the first sign I had my father’s disease, perhaps I’d lost sight of my more pressing needs. Whatever lay dormant in my body had awoken. Reckoning day had arrived and as I stood there on the mountain, soaking up the sunshine and reassuring my son I was fine, I had my second thought.
If I die on this mountain I hope I’m allowed to haunt it for a while.