Learning to Walk Again

The title of this post makes it sound like I've been through a tragic accident in which I had a stroke and broke both femurs and lost the ability to ambulate. Thankfully, that is not the case. This is about a few of the much subtler aspects of walking that I recently realized I've been taking for granted.

Last weekend, Seattle had its first glorious sunshiny day after a winter of cripplingly depressing gray skies and record-setting rainfall. I crawled from my cocoon of blankets on the couch and ventured outside, blinking my dark-adapted eyes against the long forgotten sunlight.

It was a perfect day for a hike, so I ventured out to a very popular nearby trail up Little Si (a mountain at the base of the even-bigger Mount Si).

 

This was my first time taking a legitimate hike in the Pacific Northwest.  It turns out that all the things I learned from hiking anywhere else are pretty much wrong for this place

 

Hiking in the Southwest had taught me that navigating is simple:

Look up toward top of mountain. Walk up to top of mountain. When in doubt, use position of sun to orient self.

Red Rock Canyon outside of Las Vegas, NV. 
It's like someone hit the wayfinding Easy button.

Meanwhile, in the Pacific Northwest, the bottom few miles of a hike are more like wandering around on the forest moon of Endor. As far as I can tell, navigating involves looking for an Ewok and asking it for directions. 



Hiking in the Midwest had taught me that anything taller than a speedbump in the WalMart parking lot should be reverently referred to as a "mountain."  With that as my most recent contextual reference, I was kind of braced for disappointment as I contemplated hiking "Little" Si.

Cast your eyes upon Missouri's most formidable mountain range.
Don't even think of attempting to explore this wilderness
without ice axes, crampons, supplemental oxygen,
and a highly-experienced wilderness guide.

The hike up Little Si taught me that "Little" is relative. At one point while stopped to rest on an overlook, I accidentally dropped my ear-warmers on the ground, and then helplessly watched as they bounced down a sheer 300 foot dropoff into the wooded abyss below. Little is Bigger here.

I was actually sitting on this exact ledge at the time.
Thank you, stock photo from Google,
for helping capture the moment
even though I didn't take a picture there!

Last but not least, the very mechanics of safely walking are different here.
Hiking in the pine forested mountains where I grew up, if you're losing your balance you reach out and grab a tree trunk. Stable, safe, trusty tree trunks. Virtually anything growing vertically from the ground there is guaranteed to help you as you make your way along.

Ponderosa pine forests of the Arizona highlands.
As a bonus, if you stick your nose between the cracks in the bark,
ponderosa pines all smell like some delicious blend of
maple, chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. Not kidding.

In contrast, if you're losing your balance while hiking in the deserts outside of Tucson the last thing you'd want to do is reach out for the nearest sturdy vertical plant. Because it will be a cactus. And you will have many, many, many regrets.  Instead, the best move is to crouch down so your center of gravity is lower and more stable, and look for an open patch of gravel to rest your hand on for balance.

Dear hiker, I am a saguaro.
I'm here for you to lean on whenever you decide you need me.

And in the woods of Minnesota, the best bet was to make sure you were placing your steps on solid footing in the first place, like large stones or fallen logs. That way, you knew what you were stepping on would be high, dry, and able to bear your weight well.

Even chickens, notorious for their stupidity and cowardice,
realize that walking on logs is a good way to keep your feet dry.

Except in the Pacific Northwest. I learned the hard way that stepping on a nice big fallen log here is a good way to end up knee-deep in a nice big rotted log. Everything is wet, so nothing on the ground stays solid for long. I'll probably be cleaning rotten logfunk out of the scrapes on my leg for the next several weeks. Mmmmm. Logfunk.

But despite my astoundingly maladaptive hiking techniques, I still managed to reach the top alive. Worth every step!

Here's to having a blue sky overhead
after a long, long, long gray winter!