Getting OldWell, Sun-Ra's given you his getting old story, so I might as well tell you mine.Mine happened to me five years ago, when I was turning thirty. And Sun-Ra was to blame; curse him(1). It happened on Ra's 25th birthday, when he decided we were all to climb Half Dome in Yosemite. A bunch of wimps bailed on the trip, but being the old man of the group (a phrase I had yet to use - but ominous overtones were pending) I couldn't back down myself. In the end it was just four of us against the mountain. Now, some of you who haven't been to Yosemite (and, in fact, that was me until this trip) might jump to the thought that we're all ripped raw sinewed he-men that scaled the open face of Half Dome with ropes and pitons. No... no, not for us. We took the more staid trip up the back side -- a trip described to this old timer as a nice hike. Well, we got to the park late, sometime closer to noon than those who had been on the trek before had wished, and so there wasn't time for lolly-gagging on the hike up. I mean, sure we enjoyed the waterfalls, and the ubiquitous sights of the great outdoors... how can you miss them? It's the broadside of a barn effect, man. But our tardiness did mean we were set at a goodly pace up the mountain, determined to reach the dome in time to climb the last bit. Along the trek we sipped at our water (we'd each strapped bottles to our backs - heavy, beast of burden type bottles), nibbled at our powerbars (they were all the rage, in those days), and cursed when we'd encounter closed trails and washed out paths which made us double back and march in ever circuitous routes. But eventually we reached the dome. Well, no... I though we'd reached it, but instead, after hiking uphill for eight miles, we'd reached an annoying staircase of switchbacks. "Sokay," I thought to myself, "I'm a stairmaster stud, I take steps two at a time, I can work a couple of lousy switchbacks." Fuckers. The switchbacks are there so that you can't see what lies before you once you clear the switchbacks. They're a little visual blind, a feint, a decoy... and they mock you once you run up them. Here I am, past all the switchbacks, at the top of what I thought was going to be the end of the hike -- ready to be victorious over our little posse for being first to the top -- when I see the backside of Half Dome. The switchbacks didn't take you to the top of the dome, they took you to the nape of the neck of the dome. To actually get to the top of the dome you have to walk across a narrow stone arch to the very edge of the dome, and then scale the vertical back of the dome(2), to eventually drag yourself on your hands and knees to the top. Some jovial park rangers attached cables and wooden slats to the backside of Half Dome each year, in the Spring, to help people in their accent to the top. Only by the time of the year we'd done the trip, most of the wooden boards had broken and fallen off the mountain. Fallen where? Fallen straight down, one mile down, one mile down onto granite, to the very bottom, where they met to ground with such a crash as to be completely atomized... I'm sure. So anyways... here we were... winded from sprinting up the switchbacks (ok, so really, I was the only one winded, being that I was the only one to actually try and sprint up the switchbacks) and faced with this nightmare climb. It isn't just a nightmare climb in that it looks physically exerting and dangerous... it's that you have to actually cross this narrow gap of rock, with mile drops right off to either side of you, and then just convince your body that you want to go even higher. Convince your body to risk itself on dubious looking cables and even more dubious looking boards (with only maybe thirty percent of the remaining boards in place -- and most of those we found out, on the way up, were not to be trusted with your weight). Even better was when we finally crossed to the cable and found a massive pile of corroded and weather worn gloves laying at the foot of the cable. The cable itself was made of skin devouring corded metal, and the pile of gloves was left care of the park rangers for people to use in climbing hand over hand up the cable. Man... Good Will would have rejected all of those gloves on sight. To make a long story short (3) we all made it to the top, did our little victory dances, ate our sandwiches, looked out at the view briefly, and then turned around to head back down. Remember when we started out late up the mountain? Well, the sun was definitely heading towards the horizon with all due speed and we thought it would be better to get to the car before dark. ha. You'll recall this is a tale about me being old and worn... Up to this point, I'd been a young man. It was youthful jasona that climbed Half Dome. It was aged decrepit jasona that came back down the mountain. It started out ok... we inched our way back down the cables, left our gloves at the mound o' remnants. But it was going down the switchbacks that I started to think that I might be in for some trouble. See, going up the mountain was easy. It was one foot in front of the other, and with every step up to a new elevation, my foot falls were actually shorter. What bliss, what joy. Because going down the mountain was hell. Every step brought all of my weight down upon my knees. First the left, then the right. Over and over - down the mountain - my knees absorbed all weight multiplied by the acceleration of those extra inches in decent. Sun Ra, that little fucker, bounded down the mountain with junior glee. I can still see him in my minds eye, springing gazelle-like down the trail, leaving us in the dust. But not me. My pace grew slower and slower, mile after mile ripping little tears in the ligamental glue behind my knees. Stabbing and biting and rending and pounding my youth out of me. Half way down the mountain I was ready to call it quits. My legs were shaking and my knees had gotten horse with screaming. But just as there were no safety precautions for those foolish enough to try climbing Half Dome wearing five year old corroded gloves, there weren't any wheelchairs left by the side of the path for me to scoot down the mountain. There was only one way down, and that was first one step, then the other. And again. And again. I didn't reach the car in until well after the sun had set... I'd been lucky that one of our party had packed a flashlight and had helped me down the last mile of the trek by it's fading beam -- the forest had made the path otherwise completely dark. And so, for the last five years, I've had to deal with the emotional blow that I'm not some invulnerable immortal whippersnapper. My youth has gone. I'm an old fart.
But, you know, at least I've never had to have some disgusting cyst cut from my neck. God damn... that's old!
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