I am not feeling morbid tonight, regardless of the title, as I sit on the rocks above Cathedral Lake, the sun beginning to drop beneath the tallest trees affording me a bit of shade. The breeze is rustling the tree branches and in the distance I can faintly hear the large group of campers who arrived late this afternoon and set up about a quarter of a mile down the lake. I have set up camp above the lake perched on some smooth rocks surrounded by a few trees, it is a heavenly view of the lake, meadow and Cathedral Peak. The kind of place you dream about settling in for the night when you plan and look forward to an adventure in the wilderness.
It has been a wonderful day on the trail, although I was reminded of a few things as I made my way to this glorious spot. Like I am not twenty-five anymore. And the altitude does kick your butt the first few days, not with altitude sickness, but rather your body has not manufactured the additional red blood cells needed to carry the extra oxygen you need at 10,000' plus elevation. Also your muscles have not adjusted to the new ways you are using them. But you know all of this will fall together about day five or six and it will become easier.
But you also begin to realize the day is approaching when you will not be able to do this any longer, that while you will still be able to experience the mountains, it will be approached in a less physically challenging way. Those views that have to be "earned" will be outside of your reach, so tonight I am savoring the fact that I am blessed with good health and the ability to be in this place.
Today as I hiked and watched mostly young people I remembered when I first hiked with Chuck Pelton, now in his eighties. The last time I saw him we recalled that trek, he smiled, and said those days were gone for him, but he had no regrets, which surprised me a bit. Today he is losing his eyesight and his hearing, but the images are strong. I wondered if these folks actually appreciate what they are able to do? If they are like I was at that age they just take their physical ability for granted, it is only later when you begin to feel time.
Today as I left Sunrise Camp I encountered an older woman, Julie, from Mt. Shasta. She had a very large backpack strapped to her back, and frankly she did not look like a paragon of fitness. She then explained that she, at the age of 67, and two of her friends had just climbed up from Yosemite Valley and were doing the JMT, in 28 days, "taking their time" as she put it. In addition they had gone to the trouble and expense of having multiple food drops, not only at the usual places, but also some of the more difficult access points in the last hundred miles, in order to make the final goal more attainable. She then smiled and said they had always wanted to do this adventure, and now they knew time was growing short so here they are.
I was totally struck by Julie's spirit, and her admission. And it made me feel young, what was I worried about? Truth to tell my biggest fear on this trip is injury, specifically either to my Achilles or left knee, both old injuries that could return. Ironically the injuries occurred just a few miles from where I am now, coming off of climbing Half Dome almost exactly three years ago with my sons when I slipped on some loose rocks after climbing that famous dome, one of the greatest outdoor adventures of my life. I remember that day, as I limped back to car in quite a bit of pain, thinking that this might be the end of my hiking and backpacking days. Thinking about it as descended to Yosemite Valley I was not upset, but rather pleased that I would go out on a high note if this was indeed the end. In short, I was okay with getting older.
So as I sit here tonight, waiting for the stars to come out for what should be an awesome display given the clear sky and small moon, I find myself with similar thoughts concerning diminishing physical ability, and yes mortality. I began to understand my old friend's smile. If I cannot finish the JMT I will certainly be disappointed, but I will know that I tried, and that will be enough, for to have never attempted it would have left me with deep regret. Tonight I know that I will not have any regrets, which makes me smile and give thanks.
© 2015 James McGregor Gibson