I never doubt my wisdom more than at 5 in the morning on the hiking day. It is always then that a bed seems extra soft and the weather extra gloomy, and I am the unlucky one who falls victim to my friends, who, despite nearing respectable ages, drag me into this cruel world rather than letting me remain in the dreamy bliss.
After a dozen snoozes (which also decided to be extra loud today) and fruitless attempts to remember what had led me to agree to such a trip, I finally got up and put on my green matching tracksuit. The breakfast biscuits look horrible, but that does not mean I have to. What a cheerful Sunday it could have been, with the coffee smell penetrating every inch of the apartment, had not the chirping birds and that snoozing alarm reminded me that I was already late.
As the oldest and the wisest of the group, I took upon myself the hardest of the tasks: picking the mountain to climb. “Mount Washington, Mount Adams, Mount Jefferson, Mount Lafayette,” I traced my fingers on the map. It seemed utterly unfair that there was no mountain with my name. Mount Monadnock it is, then.
My friends were already waiting. I carefully scanned the bulky shapes of their backpacks and, with delight, noted the likelihood of extra snacks. After all, there is only so much they can eat in a day of climbing, however long it feels to me.
There is one last equipment inspection before we set off. Windbreaker, check. Water, check. Lighter, check. Sunglasses, check. Can opener, check. Wait, why did I pack a can opener?
And so we set off. Hour after hour of exercising transhuman resilience, avoiding every treacherous root just waiting to catch my step, and nearing death in the form of rock sliding multiple times, I decide that it is due course for a break. The clock says it has only been 2 hours, but I have already had enough unpleasant experiences with the clock this morning.
As the moral compass of the group, I urge everyone to pool the food supply, but it seems we have descended into the primal state of energy hoarding. So I sit and ponder my friends’ shallowness in the face of the beauty of the deep valley beneath.
The unity of this group, so fiercely sworn, is in peril at the crossroads. Some of us, no fingers pointed, aim to beat the record time and have already customized the route in the straightest line. I do not like straight lines, first because they do not fit my figure, and second because my math teacher would always say I go to Kyiv through Linchin, and that is not a straight line. Though I cannot say I fully know what she meant, I know there is a watershed some feet away, and that is where I am going. Meanwhile, a few others are set to explore a bear den. My wisdom has returned by the afternoon, and I do not want to tempt fate as much.
It is surprisingly loud without anyone else. Cooing, croaking, screeching, chirping, and tweeting alongside the crisp splashes, bubbling, and plinking of streams. A chipmunk surveilles me, undoubtedly hoping to dip paws into my nut pouch, but I believe it is she who stockpiled more and thus should share.
I wet my feet occasionally, re-sketch my route, marvel at the steady rush of clear water, and wonder how my friends are doing. I secretly hope to meet someone sharing this path, but for now, a whining gram weenie in the form of myself will have to do for company.
A few branch slaps in the face and a third dry sock rotation after, the mountain peak is peaking through the trees. Another crossroad, where half my old comrades had already set up strategic camp. The other half looks like they saw a bear, but I suppose I do not look much better, as we do look very much alike.
The clock says a shameful amount of time has passed, and certainly no record is getting beaten on my behalf. Good thing, for I am in no rush, and the time for the stale biscuits has come.