Hike is such a poor word for such a noble activity. Short and sharp, it gets the tone all wrong. I prefer the French randonnée or even better, the Spanish senderismo, something lengthy and weighty with ups and downs and a hint of romance. I don’t hike much but I really enjoy it. Yesterday was a good one.
I woke a couple of hours before dawn, excited and nervous. I was going far and high and alone on a trail I did not know. I chose Saturday, when I was more likely to cross other hikers, in case I needed help. Here are the basics, an appropriately dry description for a hike: ascend Finger Rock Trail (Catalina Mountains, AZ) starting at 3,117 feet elevation (950m), climb 4,124 feet (1,300m) to summit Mount Kimball at 7,241 feet (2,207m), traverse the ridge and descend Pima Canyon Trail, 12.3 miles in 6 hours 22 minutes. It was, of course, much more than that.
As I lay in bed that morning waiting for the right time to pack up and go I happened to read a passage from an Eckhart Tolle book that explained pretty well why I enjoy hiking:
“The mind is more comfortable in a landscaped park because it has been planned through thought; it has not grown organically. There is an order here that the mind can understand. In the forest, there is an incomprehensible order that to the mind looks like chaos. It is beyond the mental categories of good and bad. You cannot understand it through thought, but you can sense it when you let go of thought, become still and alert, and don’t try to understand or explain. Only then can you be aware of the sacredness of the forest. As soon as you sense that hidden harmony, that sacredness, you realize you are not separate from it, and when you realize that, you become a conscious participant in it. In this way, nature can help you become realigned with the wholeness of life.”
― Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth: Awakening To Your Life’s Purpose
I’m neither religious nor spiritual but I do believe that Nature connects us all and hiking is a really good way to experience that. When I commune with Nature I remember that I’m just one very small link in the evolutionary chain and can let go of my exceptionalism; we humans are neither special nor unique (nor, as Tolle says later in the same book, do we represent “the final stage of universal sleep”). We are part of a universal whole, no longer sufficiently connected to it, but sometimes still able to reach out and touch it. That, to me, is an awakening.
And so, with those higher thoughts playing out in my mind, I set out with the rising sun.
Hiking alone gives one plenty of time to think, but that’s not the point. I think too much; I think we all do. I enjoy activities that give me a break from thinking, at least from conscious thinking, the ego-driven thinking that tries to correct the past and control the future, entirely futile and often hurtful but so addictive that it takes real effort to think of anything else, or to think of nothing at all. Hiking has all the elements of mindful meditation: rhythm, breath, isolation, beauty. What is a short struggle at home, cross-legged humming my Oms, is an extended pleasure on the trail. After a few minutes of the usual mind-racing I settle into a comfortable unconscious presence focused only on my next step, and then the next one.
The trail is steep. I climbed 2,100 feet (640 meters) in 90 minutes. By then I was breathing heavy, tired, sweaty, and less than one quarter complete. Mindfulness comes in handy when the going gets tough.
I’m not a runner (I hate to run, which I think is a universal feeling, except for the people that are faking it) but I ran a marathon once. A proper one with 26.2 miles (42.2 km). In my 44th year (I was 43) I finished in a respectable 4 hours and 44 minutes. I trained by jogging in Central Park for a couple of months, culminating in an agonizing, lung-burning, heart-wrenching complete lap of the park, which is 6 miles, or less than one quarter of a marathon. I did that once. The rest is mindfulness, actively not thinking about past (pain) or future (more pain), and a little help from 2,000 co-martyrs and some on-the-road wine and foie gras (benefits of signing up for the Bordeaux Marathon). So I know what’s possible, and up I went, mindfully.
Hiking alone is never lonely. Aside from the myriad forms of life and billion year-old rocks all around, you occasionally run into other hikers. My first encounter was two miles in. I had been alone for almost one hour, the trail still dark under the steep canyon walls. From around a bend pops a trim 60-something man, white hair, stylish reading glasses, navy top, pressed jeans, and what looked like blue suede running shoes. No hat, pack, poles, or water. He was coming down, so he must have left an hour before me in the pitch black. He could have been walking out of his office. Strange. I only met three others all the way up, well equipped, very focused (or just mindful), with the barest of greetings as they breezed past me. It’s nice to be alone without actually being alone.
On a long hike water is a key consideration. It’s heavy so you only take what you absolutely need, and maybe a bit more in case you’re lost or injured. One of my great pleasures is drinking from a stream and the trail I was following was supposed to cross a couple. So only take enough water to get to the stream? But Arizona is famous for its dry river beds. So what do you do? I was a Scout for a long time, as long as they would allow me. Be Prepared is the Scout motto, so that answers the water question. I took enough for the entire trip, and bit more. It also explains my attraction to hiking. I remember fondly the camaraderie and shared experiences, compass and orienteering map in hand, steel-framed rucksack jangling behind, trying to find our way and enjoying being lost (maybe an apt metaphor for those adolescent years). I can imagine sharing this with hiking friends in the future.
And then I was up. The lookout point at the top of Mount Kimball is informal; nothing adorns it, not even a sign. You reach the top of the trail, barely a trail at this point, walk onto the rock that stands at the top of the cliff, and look down. Falling from anything above 10 meters (33 feet) will likely kill you, but looking down one kilometer or one mile feels like it would kill you more. I recently read a book that promoted death as a reliable marker for measuring personal achievement; death is the only thing that is inevitable (I know, taxes too) so embrace its certain coming to get you up in the morning. The author describes a scene in which he tests his aversion to death by standing too close to the edge of a cliff. I don’t think aversion to death is the same as joy for life. I fear death, a winning evolutionary trait, but death feels like the sky, always there to contemplate but nothing I can really do about it and mostly out of mind. I don’t need to be reminded of death to live joyfully and fully; carpe diem and all that. Up there, on my cliff, I could certainly appreciate the fear of death, but much more, I appreciated the view.
On this hike I was connecting two different trails that start a few miles apart. You go up Finger Rock trail, traverse the ridge at the top, and come down Pima Canyon trail. The traverse was unmarked and hard to find. I admit to using a trail App for help (they are literally a life saver). The traverse takes about an hour and is not popular; I met no one and the trail was overgrown. The traditional rock pyramid trail markers were hidden by the long grass, if they were even there. Instead, helpful wardens had tied white ribbons to branches to show the way. I became obsessed with this treasure hunt, losing myself a few times, carefully keeping a mental map of the last ribbon so I could backtrack. There was no real danger as I could always go back up to the summit by following the slope, but walking in circles miles from anywhere is a little intimidating. I was relieved to see Pima Canyon, familiar territory.
I had hiked Pima Canyon a few times when I lived in the area many years ago. One time, I was flying down the trail, enjoying the excitement of gravity-assisted jogging, when my ankle snapped (I heard it clearly). It ended up being only a small side bone (the one you want to break, said the doctor optimistically), but I was forced to hobble out of the canyon on a broken ankle almost two miles. It took a while, and so I learned that part of the trail pretty well.
As the trail become more and more clearly visible and the slope less and less steep I started to see hikers again, a young father and daughter, an old timer who was eager to chat, a trail runner, a couple with tennis visors, a women with a baby strapped to her chest… a good sign I was nearing the end.
And then it was over. The trail ends in a parking lot. I called an Uber. Back to reality. I would do it again.
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