* * On aging, sore legs, and zippers

In every backpacking trip, a theme seems to emerge. This one might be “On aging, sore legs, and zippers”.

I’ve been backpacking since I was a pup, my early experience culminating in a 10-day trip at the national Boy Scout reservation, Philmont, in New Mexico. I’ve backpacked in 17 states. Over the decades, there have been many constants, but many things have changed and every trip is different.

One thing that has never changed is the strenuousness. I’ve always been small and not particularly athletic, and hiking mountain trails with thirty-five to fifty-five pounds on my back has always taxed me physically. More about that in a moment.

Another that hasn’t changed is the allure. More on that in a moment, too.

My most frequent hiking partner in recent years has been Jim Kline. I met Jim during my last years in college and we’ve been friends since. He raised two boys who are now in their late twenties and they did some fabulous trips together in the Rockies, Sierras, and Cascades when they were younger. Now that the boys have moved away and are on their own, Jim and I have gotten together typically in the equinox seasons for three to five-day trips.

We chose a hike on the Appalachian Trail, walking southbound through Bland and Smyth Counties in Southwest Virginia, over four days, three nights.

Our gear has changed over the years, but Jim is a traditionalist to the point of using the trail name, “Retro”. He carries a dated external frame backpack and an old-style white-gas stove. Proudly eccentric, he eats quirky, made-at-home meals (e.g. lunches of mixed nuts with olives soaked in olive brine). I’ve become more modern, with a new internal-frame pack, a nifty self-contained stove, and a brilliant LED flashlight. Zippers are old school, but mine gave me fits.

We caught a shuttle to the starting point from a friend in Marion and emerged from the car in a steady drizzle. We walked uphill to our first overnight stop at the curiously named Knot Maul Shelter.

The rain didn’t overly dampen our spirits as both of us were expecting it and had adequate rain gear. The zipper on my rain-coat jammed and I had to don and remove it sweater-style.

These days, Jim and I schedule modest distances. He’s in his early sixties, with a thin, chiseled ageless physique. I’m five years younger but I take five steps for every four of his, so I always struggle to keep up. The “through-hikers” whom we encountered on their way from Maine to Georgia or vice versa often traversed fifteen to twenty miles per day, but we planned only half that.

I over-hydrated at dinnertime and so my sleep was interrupted by several chilly trips to the woods to relieve myself, each time struggling with the zipper of my sleeping bag. We awoke the next morning to still more clouds, but as we ascended two major mountains and several smaller climbs, the sky inflicted upon us no further rain.

With most things, repetition brings familiarity. And so it is with backpacking. Yet each trip, typically months after the prior experience, still brings surprises. The terrain is different. So is the weather. Our bodies age. My feet are oddly shaped and boots never seem to fit. Minor aches and pains are accentuated. Lessons need to be relearned or modified. What once worked well may not work as well now. A backpacker’s life is one of constant adjustment.

In mid-afternoon on the day’s longest climb, my strength was fading and a new, troublesome pain arose in my chest, just below my lungs. A heart attack coming on? I’d been on a hike once where a companion had one.

On a high ridge, we found a flat spot and pitched a tent. Three through-hikers marched past briskly and purposefully towards Georgia; their walk wouldn’t end until after dark.

The next morning, we had a fleeting moment of sunshine. We traversed several ridges, then the Great Valley of Virginia, crossing I-81, US-11, and a railroad track. We visited the Settlers Museum of Southwest Virginia, generously free to hikers, with its restored circa 1894 one-room Lindamood School. Back into the woods, we walked through a fantastic rhododendron tunnel to the next shelter. My chest pains had gone away, but my thighs spasmed in pain well into the night.

The allure of backpacking doesn’t lend itself to simple, logical explanations. Tramping over hill and dale, cooking on a tiny stove, and sleeping outside either appeal to someone or not. But for me, each trip begs for the next. Jim and I recognize that with all things, our last trip will come someday. Jim said, “I do it because I am still able, secure in the reality that someday I won’t be.”

The next morning was brilliantly, refreshingly sunny for the first time, and our climb of Glade Mountain brought us our first truly spectacular view, with ridge upon colorful ridge vanishing in the distance to the north. My legs felt blissfully rejuvenated and strong.

On the way home, I realized that the mind is a wonderful thing, jettisoning the discomfort and latching onto the pleasantries, eager for the next trip.