But before the horrors of the night and the insanity of teenage girls, we sat quietly on Galehead's porch after dinner. It was alarming. You see, my companions seemed to feel the hard part was over. I knew, like I know my own name, that trouble awaited me the next day. This is due to two certain truths. First, I had far exceeded my ability thus far on the trail and that’s a debt which will be paid. With interest. Second, the only thing worse than going up, is going down. Up requires brute strength. You can haul yourself up in the sloppiest of manners (as proven that afternoon). Down, however, is infinitely more technical; there is a finesse required to shifting weight as you descend if you don’t want to fall on your face and break a tooth. Up is glutes and hamstrings -- the gorillas of your leg muscles. Down is quads and calves, -- more like spider monkeys. Down needs to be controlled on the rocks and boulders. Down needs to be particular. Down needs full attention to where you are putting you feet. Up is the superhero. Down is the crafty, vicious, sneaky villain. And Sunday was 4 miles of villain.
Chris was also concerned, but his was centered on The Gaggle. The Gaggle had left about 45 minutes before us, headed down on the same trail. “If I get close to them, I’m kicking into high gear to get away.” He got tangled up with them. Twice. He got away. Twice.
Jamie and I were much less fortunate; we became well and truly trapped. For the last mile down, we were ensnared in the long line this group formed: kids in front, parents in back. From this position, we got to hear further torment, mockery, and a rather unsettling amount of energy from these kids. Did I ever have that much energy? Was I ever in shape like that? Was I getting old? Or, gods, was I old already? I supposed I was getting old, in comparison. Supposed I was just another adult to these kids, maybe even to Gumby and Snowy. My legs were tired and wouldn’t recover for days and days. My arms hurt. My heart pounded. I was nearing 40. Is 40 old? It once seemed to be. Past prime. Wrinkles. Saggy flesh. Longer hangovers. Shorter memory. Droopy boobs. Boring hair cuts and shoes. Giant underpants. I started to obsess about the aging process, panic slowly rising. In the midst of this internal meltdown, one question arose as more important than anything else: Did that kid just say he saw the parking lot?
He did.
He was wrong, but he said it and hope sprung. There were three more instances of The Boy Who Cried Parking Lot before he was actually right and the kids started sprinting. When we emerged, Chris and Kevin were sitting in camp chairs, clean, fresh and dry, drinking ice cold beers with their feet up. They had a hibachi set up and were grilling hot dogs and steaks while watching YouTube videos on their iPads. Their beards had grown since I last saw them on the trail. Their hair was longer. They had hung up Christmas lights.
I sat down and tore off my boots.
I did not chuck them into the trees.
I changed out of my wet shirt and bra, not caring who got flashed in the process. I had to borrow a shirt from Jamie, who found it ironic that although our packed suitcase was 90% my shit, I was still borrowing clothes from him. I started to explain that my clothes were too cute to be donned in such a disgusting state, that my shirts were too clingy and would only soak up more sweat and make me hotter (and crankier), that girls need more clothes than boys and the packing situation was totally logical, and that I really had forgotten to pack an extra t-shirt because it wasn't as hot last year. I summed all of this up in five delicate words, "Give me the damn shirt." And he did.
He also suggested I consider eating something (meaning: shut up, you hungry, cranky, smelly, wild-haired crankasaurous).
I ate something.
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