If you’ll allow me I’d like to annotate for listeners and readers the email I received from my friend Bruce ahead of the hike we took up Mount Greylock in the Berkshires this week. What you need to know about Bruce is that at seventy-two years old he has the energy, physical stamina and lung capacity of the average twenty-year-old.
Or to put it another way, one of the conversations on our hike involved some mountain race that Bruce helped staff, the weight of water and how many gallons of it he lugged to the top of the mountain for the competitors. I’m not sure if the reason he wasn’t running himself was because he thought himself too old or had done a mountain run of his own the day before. On an average day Bruce may indulge in several sports, not counting morning yoga.
My recollection is that a gallon water weighs over eight pounds and Bruce lugged four of them to the top of the mountain in a single trip. He wasn’t boasting. He was talking about another guy who carried several additional gallons. I don’t recall whether that guy’s still in the hospital because I was paying only partial attention since we were traversing some terrain that posed a similar risk to physical health.
“Definitely carry water and snacks and maybe more substantial food,” Bruce wrote in his email. Water and snacks made sense. I was planning to bring those anyway. But more substantial food?” Was Bruce indulging in euphemism? Was he saying that it might be several days before we were located by the mountain rescue squad and helicoptered out? Bruce’s typical idea of provisioning is a bag of gorp.
I’ve skied with him out west. When we’ve stopped for lunch I order a cheeseburger deluxe and a Coke. We’ll have been skiing several hours already and I’m ravenous. Bruce will have a modest bowl of soup and my leftover French Fries. I’ve never previously heard him suggest we stockpile as if we’re summiting the Himalayas.
“I think walk will be about 4.5 hours,” he went on. That statement smacked of reassuring precision. I’ve known Bruce a long time. There’s the Bruce effect. Add a good couple of hours to whatever number he gives you. It’s not that he’s lying. He’s just enthusiastic. He probably also fears that if he tells us the actual time the hike will take I’ll cancel because I’m a complaining wimp. All that is true. Also true is that our promenade took seven hours. In other words, more than a third longer than he said.
And finally this: “I believe lodge on top (Bascom) will be open for snacks.” That was undoubtedly a good faith belief. It was a Monday in mid-summer. If a lodge at the top of a mountain was ever going to be open you’d think this was the time. It wasn’t. It was closed. Also, it had started to rain and the only shelter was under an overhang.
As you can probably tell I’m not a seasoned hiker. I undertake approximately one major hike a year; major by my standards, not anybody else’s. In fact, I was slightly concerned about my stamina and embarrassing myself in front of Bruce and Tom, the third member of our Donner Party. I’d never hiked with Tom before and was slightly alarmed when he arrived perfectly outfitted. He even had gaiters over his hiking shoes. I’d neglected to review the map of our route Bruce thoughtfully sent us the previous day. Did Tom know something I didn’t? Did our expedition include traversing a swamp or some ancient peat bog?
Still, I feel confident in offering this advice to hikers of all ages and skill levels. Use walking sticks. There’s no shame in doing so. Think of your dog or cat. They’re probably a lot more surefooted than you are. Why? Because they’re operating on four legs while you’re limited to two. Why not balance the scales? Boost your chances of survival. Were it not for my walking sticks I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.
Even Bruce brought walking sticks, though he claimed he really only needed them for the descent. I needed them for the descent and the ascent. By the way, Bruce judged this an easy hike with lots of level ground. But we seemed to be going straight up for the first hour or so. So he changed his story. He said things would get easier and that we were gettting the hard part out of the way at the beginning.
The only time I didn’t require walking sticks was at lunch while seated on a chair under those aforementioned eaves while dodging a drizzle. I don’t know whether to believe the health app on my iPhone. But it claims that I climbed 111 floors, took a hair under 25,000 steps, and walked 10.3 miles that day.
In the end, I’d like to think all three of us did ourselves proud. Only one of us fell and not badly. He might even have been on a business call at the time. And, believe me, there was ample opportunity to fall, if not to our deaths. Roots, rocks everything was rain-slicked. And as we were coming off the mountain triumphant we spotted a porcupine. If we’d encountered him at the start of our adventure I might have taken his visitation as an evil omen. Instead, now that we were safe our wildlife encounter felt like a gift. Especially since the soft serve ice cream place Bruce promised us as a reward for our courage was closed.
Ralph Gardner, Jr. is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found be found on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
