Midlife crisis and shame. The two most powerful motivators in a man's life.
"Are you actually going to use all that new hiking equipment you bought?" asked Hannah, hence the shame. And then I worryingly turned [redacted]-years-old. But there was a simple solution to both of these, literally on my doorstep here in New Mexico: climb a mountain.
In my youth I climbed to the top of many a mountain, mostly in Wales where they have the best mountains including the Preseli Mountains, where St Elvis is buried (St Elvis of Preseli = Elvis Presley = Elvis was Welsh). Living in oh-so-flat Houston offers few opportunities, so it's really Vancouver where I last reached my peak, and I got up that one by cable car. So I pulled on my hiking boots, filled my backpack with snacks, and kissed Hannah and Pete goodbye.
The local mountain is Sierra Blanca, a small matter of 12,000ft (3,650m) above sea level. Thankfully the car park is at 9,700ft, but there are no higher mountains until you get to Mexico. It was a worthy opponent in my battles against aging and needlessly buying sports equipment.
Sierra Blanca is on the Mescalero Apache's land, and the tribe owns the ski resort on Lookout Mountain, the next peak along. The trail leads you up to that one first, which means you get to wander around a weirdly deserted ski resort with its rusty lifts unmoving and its chalets empty. From there it's a ridge climb all the way to the top.
It had been a quiet day on the trails; I'd only passed one other person in three hours, a man wearing a straw fedora who had a baseball bat he was hitting against trees, to keep the bears away he told me. But half-way up the final ascent (which I confess I was not coping well with) I turned and saw someone following me! Whether it was the bat-wielder returned for me or not, it did give me the extra impetus to achieve the summit. It was tough, because there's a lot less oxygen at 12,000ft. That's science.
I had five minutes to compose myself, to try to make it look like this was no big deal for me, when the second climber arrived. We chatted for a bit. "Did you see that guy with the baseball bat?" he asked. He was younger and fitter, and had starting climbing an-hour-and-a-quarter later than I did. But had he climbed any Welsh mountains? I doubt it.
I bid him farewell and started to descend. Going down is harder than going up, as any Boy Scout will tell you, and this is doubly true when the down is via a ski run. I decided to take the direct route back to the car, having pigheadedly assured Hannah I'd be home for "a late lunch" so didn't want to retrace the longer trail path. I hate skiing, but have to admit that this would have probably been easier in the snow. How much is a double knee replacement under US medical insurance?
Around four hours after starting I was back at the car, wondering if I had strength enough in my legs to push the pedals. The drive was all downhill, so if the worst happened I could use the handbrake. I staggered into the house triumphant...to find Hannah and Pete had gone out for a picnic.
So you see, it was worth me buying that new backpack! What's more, there is life in the old dog yet!! At least, there was before I started climbing. Now I'm not so sure.
The fresh young face of optimism.
My final destination.
And here I am! 12,007ft, plus my 6ft, so...yeah, nice and high.
Proof!
