What Would This Guy Think?

That's me 10 & 1/2 years ago.

I often wonder what my younger selves would think of the person I've become, especially my 18-year-old self (who'd likely be drunk and would probably try to kick my ass), but also this former self, the one who rode this motorcycle almost 500 miles just 48 hours after learning to ride it, and who moved halfway across the country on it less than a year later. I guess this me would like the current me pretty well, though I'm sure I'd think I was uptight, since I don't drink much or smoke anymore (and hardly ever cuss, for that matter).

Mostly I wonder if my former selves would respect me, whether they'd think I'm tough enough, or more important, whether they'd think I'm practicing what I preach (I guess that's just a different kind of "tough enough," isn't it?).

Many times, this kind of thinking has inspired me to do difficult things when I'd otherwise have chickened out. Other times, I look back and realize how far I've come; and then it becomes easier to imagine how far I can go from here.

Well, 1993 former self (wherever you are), this blog entry is dedicated to you. I hope you like what you see.

Somehow, though, I have a feeling I know what you think of it.

Special Thanks to N.M.T for unearthing this photo! You rock!

Posted by Me at 21:03 link

Who IS Wesley Clark?

General Clark's health plan would improve health care for those that have it by emphasizing preventive, medically-justifiable and cost-effective services and guaranteeing universal coverage for children, access for all Americans, and making health care more affordable for tens of millions of families currently struggling to pay their premiums. Based on the principles of value, responsibility and fairness, the plan would reorient expensive, often-inadequate health coverage towards preventive and diagnostic benefits, services proven to be medically sound, an emphasis on disease management, and proven competitive purchasing techniques that ensure Americans get the greatest value for their investment. Second, the plan ensures that health care is more affordable for all families and that no child goes without health insurance by guaranteeing affordable coverage and concurrently requiring families to purchase it for their children.

[full position statement]

His "10 Pledges" aren't bad, especially number 6: "I will never challenge the patriotism of Americans who question my policies or express their disagreement." Right on.

But too many of the other pledges make him seem obsessed with National (in)Security, leading me to believe a Clark presidency would do nothing to end what's starting to look like a perpetual climate of fear and war:

As President, I will ensure that we succeed in Iraq, that we focus our intelligence, diplomatic, financial, law enforcement and military resources on defeating al Qaeda...

Wesley Clark is still very much a General.

Although I'm certain he'd be a more effective, involved Commander In Chief than Bush has been, I'm hoping the next President will be effective enough as a statesman that he doesn't have to act as Commander In Chief.

Posted by Me at 11:33 link

neZ

Did you ever have a day like that? No matter what I was doing, my mind was somewhere else. One example: I spent half my HTML class formulating a response to my Economics professor's rather startling assertion this morning that there are no such things as freedom, liberty or equity. I did my HTML work, too, but my mind wasn't in it. Here's what I came up with, by the way: would you not agree that a man in prison has less liberty or freedom than a man outside of prison? If someone can have more or less of something than someone else, then surely that something exists. Well?

Music In My Head:

• Stevie Wonder — "Sir Duke"
• Linkin Park — "In the End"
• Train — "Calling All Angels"

The Rat Race: do I have to?

I guess I don't like my economics class so far. The instructor seems like an interesting, engaging person, obviously knows both the academic and practical aspects of economics — but something just rubs me the wrong way about the whole shebang.

Maybe it was the class's answers to the instructor's "getting to know you" question. He asked us to say our names, how long we'd been here at the college and "What is your dream?"

More than half of the people in the room said their dream was to have a lot of money and/or a "great family." To his credit, the instructor didn't like those answers much. I said I wanted to travel, which he liked better. Other answers he liked were "to teach," and "to run my own business."

Then, to illustrate the all-encompassing nature of economics, he asked why we brushed our teeth. I didn't answer, but I'd have said I take good care of my teeth because I want to be able use them for a long, long time. The class consensus reasons were "social acceptance" and economic benefit.

I hope I'm not the only one who finds that depressing.

The class text is N. Gregory Mankiw's Principles of Economics (3^rd Ed.), a book which has been roundly criticized for its slant:

...Mankiw's writing consistently supports nearly all of the Bush conservative agenda, including tax cuts for the rich, deregulation, and reduced government spending. Mankiw's textbook, hailed as a breakthrough for its slimmed-down, high-tech approach, tilts so much toward the right that college professors interviewed for this article fear that students learn a particularly biased view of modern economics — far more so even than students who use other mainstream texts.

[full review]

Beyond that, just thinking about uncontroversial economic realities leaves me feeling blue. Mainly, I keep wondering whether I have any "marketable skills". Will I be able to get a job? And, if I do, will I be more or less happy as a result?

I've never bought into the "more money = better life" equation. Up to a point, yes.

• If you have no money, you are homeless. You have no furniture, you have no clothes, and you have no food.
• If you have a little money, you have a place to live, you have furniture, clothes and food. That's a huge difference!
• If you have a lot of money, what does it get you? A fancy place to live, fancy furniture, fancy clothes and fancy food. Not nearly as big a difference. Except that people might want to steal your fancy stuff, so you have to worry about that. And if you have to give up all your time to get the fancy stuff, how much do you really enjoy it?

Oh well, this discussion is purely (as they say) academic. The race is about to begin. I'd better get down to the starting line. Maybe it won't be so bad after all.

Posted by Me at 21:37 link

I'd Follow Me Anywhere

Take this simple test to see if solo hiking is for you:

1. Stand in front of a mirror.
2. Shine a light into one ear.
3. If you see light coming out the other ear, you're a good candidate for solo hiking.

First, do you trust yourself completely? If not, don't bother reading any further.

Next, Do you have any major fears? Are you afraid of the dark, of being lost, of wild animals, of being caught out in bad weather, of having to deal with an injury? Because you'll probably have to deal with all of these—on your own—if you hike solo long enough. I've been hiking by myself on a regular basis for ten years, and I've had to deal with all of those. Well, not wild animals, really; I've seen some critters, and I've been temporarily frightened, but I haven't had any dangerous encounters. Yet. Then there's "fear itself": are you afraid of being afraid on your own? Because you will be.

Those are the pyschological elements. Now we get to the physical. First, are you in good shape? That is, good enough at least to do what you want to do, handle an unforeseen or two, and still make it back home safely? Do you know what clothing you'll need for the weather you might have to deal with? Do you have it? With gear it's the same, but also: do you know how every last thing works, have you checked to make sure it's all in good working order, and that you have fresh batteries (et cet.)? Do you know how to plan a trip? Do you know how to use a map & compass (and/or GPS)? Aside: even if you have GPS, good map skills are still vital. Do you have any first aid training? Do you have a first aid kit equipped to handle anything you may have to handle? Do you have survival training and gear?

Do you have tools, spare parts and skills to repair any essential items that might break? Do you have everything you need, and only the things you need, so that the sheer weight of your pack doesn't create problems?

Even if you have the right answers to all of the above questions, I can't in good conscience recommend solo hiking to anyone!

Too many things can go wrong outdoors, many of them in a matter of seconds, for me to tell another person they should hike by themselves. If you're with someone else, they can help you over the rough spots, they can help treat an injury— and they can go for help. If you're by yourself, you either have to be your own "help" or else you have to hope you've left your trip plan with someone reliable.

Did I forget to mention the trip plan? Another thing you always have to do if you hike alone: tell someone you can trust precisely where you're going, when you'll be back, and what to do/who to call if you don't make it back by that time. If Aron Ralston had left a trip plan, he wouldn't have been forced to cut off his own hand. Many seem to find his story inspiring, but to me it's a classic example of stupidity leading to desperation. I know others would say the same about anyone who hikes alone.

Which brings us to good old me. Why on earth would I pursue such a stupid form of recreation?

I love solo hiking. Probably more even than I love hiking with others, at least more than I've loved hiking with 95% of the others I've hiked with so far. Other people are usually too slow, or too fast, or they want to do lame hikes, or they talk too much, or they want to talk about stupid things, or they want to turn back when I want to keep going.... Maybe I'm just too in love with the pure experience of moving in nature, free, to enjoy doing it with others much. I mean usually. I've enjoyed a number of hikes with others, and the companionship was a big part of what made those hikes enjoyable. Anyone who knows me knows I love people — but those who truly know me know I need to be only with myself sometimes in order to stay sane (well, more-or-less!).

Almost all of my absolute favorite hikes have been solo. I love to go at night, in winter, on the toughest trails I can find, preferably with harsh weather. Who else would enjoy doing that?

My solo hiking started of necessity. Ten years ago, I'd just moved back here, I knew no one, and I really wanted—needed—to get outdoors. So I went. I didn't understand the risks, I didn't have many skills and my gear was laughable. Most of my stuff then was army surplus, bulky, heavy — but affordable. I'd put on my jungle boots, strap my ALICE pack to the back of my motorbike, leave the dog with Mom, telling her I was "off to Linville Gorge; back sometime tomorrow or the next day," and off I'd go. With 40 pounds of the most god-awful gear imaginable on my back, I walked all over the Gorge, returning at night to camp by the bike. I got lost a lot, but Linville Gorge is, with the exception of a few cliffs, not a bad place to get lost. Go downhill, hit the river and the river trail; go uphill, hit a road. Those were fun days!

Then I started reading mountaineering books and outdoor survival stories and I began to understand how dangerous mountains can be. My work situation had improved, so I had money to invest in quality gear. I read survival handbooks, assembled first aid and survival kits and practiced some of the skills I was reading about. I hiked with some other folks. I got a decent compass and went to a couple of orienteering meets.

I got some winter gear and found I was unusually tolerant of cold weather.

Just one year later, I found myself alone on top of Grandfather Mountain at night in a February blizzard. 5° F, 40 mph wind, snowing hard and blowing snow, too. By this time I was addicted, hooked on the extremity, hooked on the sensation of invulnerability, secure in the knowledge that I was willing and able to do stuff hardly anyone else can do, or at least feels they can do. Also, I was used to having the best trails in the East all to myself.

I've had a few mishaps, a couple of scary moments, a close call or two.

• On Mount Mitchell, in March, 1998, I experienced 100+ mph winds for the first time when I was forced to spend the night in the summit tower—after discovering the shelter on the map was no longer on the mountain. It was a spooky blast! Lesson: always, no matter what, take a tent if you plan to overnight.
• In the summer of '99 on Cold Mountain (yes, the one from the movie), I lost the trail while descending and, stupidly running I managed to jam a broken-off sapling 5" into my shin. It was icky! Lesson: when off-trail go slowly and carefully.
• On Mitchell again, in summer 2001, my headlamp battery ran out and I discovered I hadn't packed a spare. I descended the remaining 2000 vertical feet/3 miles by the light of a 1-AAA powered MagLite Solitaire (worked fine!). Lessons: 1) the stuff in your survival kit really works; and 2) always check your gear before a hike, especially a solo night hike.

So, with all these valuable lessons learned, you'd think I wouldn't have made a dumb and costly mistake last night.

To be fair, it was a wonderful hike. I started just before sunset from Black Mountain Campground trailhead. Two forty-something guys had just gotten back to their Subaru Outback as I pulled in. I asked about their hike: they'd made it to the top, they said, and it had been "challenging." Lots of ice, they said. They asked me if I was planning to overnight at the campground. I surprised them when I told them I was going up the hill. Now. I said I'd gotten a new headlamp for Christmas, and couldn't wait any longer to try it out. They looked at each other in a way that's probably not too hard for you to imagine. One of them wished me luck, repeating in his strong, cultured Southern accent that it was "challenging." "Thanks for the beta," I replied.

Off they went, and off I went. 3120 feet elevation, 5:30 PM. There was only a light dusting of snow at the bottom. No ice; a little liquid water here and there. While the twilight faded away, I ascended steadily through the forest of rhododendron, laurel and "mixed deciduous" trees (oaks and poplars mostly, I think?), stark without their leaves.

The Mount Mitchell Trail climbs relentlessly from bottom to top, with very few flats or downhills. Like all truly great trails, it becomes steeper, slicker and harder to follow the higher you go. I was amazed at the number of fallen trees and branches; several times the trail had been rerouted to go around a fallen giant.

The blazes had also been redone since the last time I'd hiked this trail; the Forest Service for whatever reason had replaced the familiar blue blazes with yellow ones. The Rangers' sense of humor was evident, as most of the blazes had been arranged in the form of exclamation points. At first I couldn't decide if they were saying to me "Watch Out!" or just "Wow!". As the mountain continued being extremely kind to me, I decided it was the latter.

Some of the blazes had been done with the dot on top, giving them a distinctively Latin flair; I decided these were, in fact saying ¡Cuidado!

The first third of the trail switchbacks through a huge bowl; the lights of the campground were visible all the way to the Higgins Bald Trail Junction, around 4000 feet. At this point, 90 minutes into the hike, I turned on my headlamp. Wow! It was so much brighter than before I modified it, and much more comfortable to wear, with the batteries stowed inside my comfy old jacket.

The trail now leaves the "bowl" and ascends more steeply along the side of a rounded ridge, before crossing a creek and beginning a series of long switchbacks up to the Commissary Hill bald at 5700', where the shelter isn't (though the map still stubbornly insists otherwise).

During the switchbacks, significant ice made its first appearance. After a couple of very minor slips, I stopped and put on my instep crampons. These have only four points, but I find they're just as effective as "real" 12-point crampons on any ice with an angle of less than about 20°, and they weigh much less, both in the pack and on the feet, they're less bulky, they attach and detach faster, and they're less prone to ripping trouser hems to shreds.

So, what's a little ice among friends? With my instep crampons and a trekking pole, I crunched up the hill with great ease (and traction), though I was feeling the elevation a bit by the time I reached Commissary Hill.

Surprisingly, I wasn't feeling much wind or cold. The temperature at the bottom had been about 25° F, I'd guessed, and it was maybe 5 degrees cooler now. The wind was just a 10 mph breeze, with slightly higher gusts. I could, however, hear stronger winds uptrail. I was comfy; I'd sweated a bit at the start, but I was just right now. Tired, but in the groove. Onward and upward!

The trail ascends steeply through the "Canadian" vegetative zone above Commissary Hill. This "enchanted forest" gets huge winds for a lot of the year, so there's always a lot of stormfall, which can create routefinding difficulties. Fortunately, several others had been up since the last snowfall, so when in doubt, I could "cheat" and just follow the footprints.

As usual, this stretch seemed to last far longer than I expected. But one (crunch) foot in front of the other (crunch) over and over and over and over and over (bunch of crunches) eventually brought me to the Mount Mitchell State Park boundary, then after again what seemed far too long, the junction with the Balsam Nature Trail. Which is where I was when I realized one of my crampons had come apart.

The crampons are fairly simple, just two staps and two metal halves held together with a small carriage bolt and self-locking nut. The bolt was still attached to the crampon but the nut was missing. Many of the rocks on Mitchell contain a lot of mica, which is silvery; sprinkled among the well-tramped snow were dozens of little mica-shiny pebbles, just the size of the nut. Although it seemed futile, I spent about five minutes looking for the nut before I decided to go up to the top first, and attempt a makeshift repair afterwards. The last bit of trail was ice-free anyway. It was covered instead with an inch or so of squeaky powder snow. The moon was rising in the east; it was blood-red and large just above the lights of Marion on the enormous horizon.

I walked the last .1 mile to the summit ridge, then up past Dr. Mitchell's grave to the tower. If you get spooked easily, this is not a good place for you to be by yourself at 10:00 PM on a clear winter night.

Though tame by Mitchell standards, the wind created a familiar eerie, resonating keen as it poured through every opening it could find in the hollow tower. My best guess is that it was about 15° F, with sustained 20 mph wind, making the windchill slightly subzero.
My hand, trekking pole and knee are just visible on the far left of the picture (tiny tripod officially now added to wishlist); Dr Mitchell's grave is inside the iron fence. No, I'm not wearing gloves (or at hat; I told you I don't get cold too easily).

I walked up the tower stairs to the observation deck (6684'). The wind was a little higher here, maybe 25 mph, with gusts up to 40 (they "shove" you a bit). After soaking in the absolutely amazing starry sky and taking several pictures (none of which really turned out well), I headed back downstairs, then after a couple more shots, down the hill. I spent a couple of minutes more looking in vain for the little nut, then I stopped at a sheltered spot just before the first of the icy sections.

Here I tried a variety of makeshift repairs to the crampons, none of which worked. I couldn't get then to hold together tightly enough with cord, nor could I wrap the threads of the bolt tightly enough with wire to make it function without the nut (both solutions mercifully revealing their shortcomings with just one step). I rummaged through all my gear, but didn't find anything with such a nut, or any bolt/nut combination I could use. Hmm. I did at least have enough sense to tighten the nut on the other crampon while I thought about it. Now I was starting to feel a little chilly from sitting around almost 30 minutes.

I put on my earwarmer, put away all my stuff (including the busted crampon), and headed down the ice. The plan was to make do with just the one crampon.

So— lead with the right foot. Plant trekking pole tip as firmly into ice as possible. Slide left foot up even with right foot. Repeat.

This worked fine on level ice, but the first slightly-angled section quickly put me on my butt. Well, I was okay. No injury. Cool. I realized I could put my left foot on the snowy/rocky ground to the left of the ice and make safe progress. Very Cool. State Park boundary, Commissary Hill, down I went at a rate of over 150 vertical feet every 5 minutes (according to my wristwatch altimeter). More ice. No Problem. Walked around it. Smooth sailing.

Until what I figured was about the third-to-last steepish icy stretch. This had a steep bank on the right, with some sharp-looking roots protruding; and about a 10 foot drop-off on the left. I considered sitting down and sliding, but the ice poured roughly over a series of painful-looking rock steps, not to mention I was liable to end up going over the drop-off or impaling myself on a tree root. I considered climbing up and around the ice, but I knew nothing of the terrain up there; I knew I could easily end up lost, or even stuck facing different ice. I realized there were a few rocks on the left side with just a little ice on them. Perhaps they would give me the traction I needed. I only needed to go about 50 feet. The first few steps went well. I almost fell, but caught myself.

About halfway down, though, my luck ran out. My left foot slipped out from under me, I landed on my right side and slid, alarmingly fast down the ice. My right knee slammed into a root, bringing me to a stop on level ice. Ouch. But not that bad, really. I looked down at my knee. My trousers had a pair of small holes. I touched my knee. It felt a little soft, but didn't hurt. Okay, let's see if it works. Sure enough, I was able to stand up, and the knee didn't seem to mind the weight. A few step-plant-slide-steps and I was off the ice. I looked at the knee again. A little blood appeared on the trousers, but only a little. Damage is done, I figured, might as well leave it. This was to prove an extremely wise decision.

Down the hill. Still 150 feet down every 5 minutes. More blood on the knee. I washed some of it off with snow, but it still seemed like a fair amount of blood. No pain, though, and it was working fine. I fell once more on the last icy patch, but landed on my pack. No worries. I realized all this getting up was giving me a good upper-body workout.

Off with the right crampon. Now past the ice, I sort-of ran a little. The lower part of the Mount Mitchell Trail is excellent for trail running, moderately-angled and mostly smooth.

Across the creek and on down the hill. More blood. No pain. Higgins Bald trail junction. The moon was high in the sky now, reflecting brightly off the snow. I could hear big wind gusts (50 mph) roar past the top of the hill and fly by overhead, like jet fighters. Very little wind penetrated the forest. 4010 feet; 890 feet to go. Five minutes later: 3870, 750 feet to go; 140 feet in the last five minutes makes just over 20 minutes more! That's what was running through my mind—computing my rate of descent and ETA; this alternated with sorting out a personal problem, an internal discussion that had been going on all night and which I'd decided I'd resolved satisfactorily. Of course, all night there was music in my head, mainly the theme from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (an earworm from having watched a couple of the BBC series episodes recently) and "L'amour Est Un Oiseau Rebelle", with the occasional bit of Richard Thompson's version of "Oops! I Did It Again." An odd mix, to be sure.

Down through the bowl. I had to stop the half-running; I was just a little too tired for it. With just the faintest hint of self-prodding, I was able to keep myself walking fast. I remembered previous descents seeming never-ending, but this one was flying by. The campground lights kept getting closer. 3515, 3405, 3275...

Then I saw the moon-dappled campground road. Yes! Then the campground, the bridge across the South Toe River. Then my car, always a sweet sight at the end of a hike.

Almost home, only about two hours of driving to go. 12:54 AM.

The trip home went smoothly. The only tense moment was on the classic-two-lane-mountain-road stretch of NC 80 just below the Blue Ridge Parkway. There was so much salt on the road that I actually slid in it when I went around a hairpin turn just a little too fast. Not that tense, really, but it did wake me up.

I was alert and focused all the way home. Traffic was light, of course!

Getting out of the car at home, my knee was a little stiff. I could feel my long underwear clinging to the wound a little. The blood had dried on my trousers. The dogs were glad to see me of course. I greeted them, let them out and in, posted my "made it back" message, then hit the shower.

I got the water temperature a comfortable lukewarm and applied it to my knee-stuck underwear. It didn't budge at first, but persistence paid off. The fabric came away to reveal — a gash, 3/8 inch wide, running 3+ inches down my knee in a C shape, with deep, bloody space visible within.

I felt nauseated immediately. I caught my face in the shaving mirror: I'd gone ghostly pale. I sat down on the edge of the tub. I couldn't help but look at the wound again. How could that not hurt? I pushed it together and was relieved to see that it would go. I'm going to need some serious stitches, I figured. I felt a wave of dread and regret course through me. I knew from my first aid classes that I was going into shock. More waves of nausea. I felt cold. Blood trickled from the wound and ran down my wet shin. I turned off the shower, moved over to the toilet seat, devised a plan: get shock under control, dress wound, drive to emergency room. I couldn't get up; I felt like I might pass out if I did. I made a conscious decision not to look at the wound until I was ready to dress it. I got some water from the sink, drank it. I reached up, opened the medicine cabinet, found the gauze, the tape. I figured two sets of 2-inch square pads, slightly overlapped, would do it. Nope. I needed three sets. My leg was still wet. Would the tape stick? Yep. Okay, now I felt a lot better. Need rest, I thought. Walk across the cold hall to my warm room, start to collapse on the bed. No! Don't want to get any blood on the sheets. I got an old shirt I kind of hate from the closet and wrapped it loosely around the wound, then I got under the covers. I was shivering in the 70° F room. The irony was lost on me at the time.

I expected to fall asleep, but I didn't. When I was warm again, I decided to get dressed and over to the ER. Lounge pants, t-shirt, sweatshirt (all more-or-less "disposable"), slippers. Gloves, hat. Keys, wallet, gum. "Good dogs. Goodbye, guard house, I'll be back."

I drove carefully. My shock seemed to be under control, but I was still a little cold.

Into the ER. Fill out the paperwork. In less than 20 minutes, I was asking the nurse "Please tell me this isn't as bad as it looks."

It wasn't.

I slept as I waited at each step. To see the doctor, who turned out to be a lapsed hiker/climber/paddler type from New Hampshire (though here for over 20 years). To get wheelchaired to radiology (I felt like a horse's ass, getting wheeled around). To wait again for the doctor.

He woke me up quite effectively with the numbing shots. Everything on the X-rays looked good, he said; it appeared to be just a surface injury. He irrigated it, then stitched it. Huge stitches, "the biggest ones we have, same ones we use to seal up cadavers," he said. I did not need to know that, I thought (but didn't say). He told me I'd have a scar. We talked about rock climbing (he's done some free-soloing), hiking in New Hampshire, class V whitewater, skydiving (he said he'd quit because he'd felt more afraid each time he did it). He said he didn't have time to get outdoors anymore. He finished the stitches. Eleven.

The doctor left, I fell asleep, the nurse came back and cleaned me up. She was cool; turns out I went to high school with her sister-in-law. Small town.

The doctor came back, stood in the doorway, told me not to bend the knee for the next seven days. Said I'd need an "immobilizer." Said to come back in 10 days for stitch removal. He left without saying goodbye; I thought he might be back (I'd wanted to see if he'd like to do some hiking or climbing with me), but no. I didn't even thank him. The nurse came back with the immobilizer, which turned out to be a big stiff pad with straps. It wraps around the leg, forming "a soft pad with bars on the sides that keep the knee from bending" (according to the literature the hospital sent home with me). It's big and ugly and screams "I'm hurt!". I thanked the nurse, got my stuff and quickly taught myself to drive wearing an immobilizer.

I went home, slept, got up, hobbled to school (walking is okay for the wound, but I'm really, really slow), went to three classes. I drove to the hardware store and got the nut for the crampon bolt. Unfortunately, they didn't have the bolt, or any small carriage bolt/nut combination that would work. Still, if I'd had the little nut last night, I wouldn't have had any problems. I wouldn't have to wear an immobilizer for the next week, or to wear a scar for, well, life. I bought four of the little nuts and put a pack of two in the bag with the crampons. I checked out my Grivel G-12 crampons: they have a little bag containing two spare bolt/nut sets in a velcro-sealed pouch built into the bag with them.

At first, after I realized my injury, I considered giving up solo winter night-hiking.

But I've thought about it.

I could easily have injured myself the same way on a hike in broad daylight with a partner, or with a group. If that had happened, they would have insisted I stop where I was. They would have insisted on examining the wound. I'd have seen it and gone into shock. I would not have descended the remaining four miles. I'd have waited there, shivering, drinking my survival kit tea by my survival kit fire while I waited for the rescue party. Which would have come eventually. I think they'd have carried me the short way back up to Commissary Hill bald, where an extremely expensive helicopter ride to the nearest trauma hospital would have ensued. I'd have felt like a total schmuck. I'd be paying for it for quite a while (my insurance should cover most, if not all, of my Statesville ER bill). What would I have learned? Don't go hiking?

Instead, I've learned something I already "knew," but not something I'm likely to be slack about ever again: always check out every essential piece of gear, and have a way to fix it if it breaks (or a backup). Also, I'm reminded that things aren't always as they appear. A tiny nut can be as valuable as a human life; a gaping, hideous gash can turn out to be a minor injury. Sometimes it's vital to know every last detail; other times, it's better not to know—or at least not to dwell on—unfortunate realities when you can't change them.

Most important, I've learned how much I trust myself, and how well-placed and valuable that trust is.

I like this trip leader. He's bold and he plans cool trips. He's got good instincts and though he's not perfect, he's pretty damned good and getting better all the time. When my knee heals, I'm looking forward to following him up the next gnarly thing as soon as possible. (And to making him stop referring to himself in the third-person, of course).


Posted by Me at 23:16 link

A Good Evening in the Woods

Just in case...

I'm going to hike Mount Mitchell now. If I haven't put up another post by 7:00 AM EST (1200 GMT) Monday, January 12, please call the Appalachian/Toecane District Ranger Station at (***) ***-****. Tell 'em I'm on the Mount Mitchell Trail between the Black Mountain Campground and Mount Mitchell. I'm by myself. I'm the guy who belongs to the Blue Ford Taurus. I do have basic survival gear, training, and experience. I'm carrying an FRS radio, which I'll tune to channel one in case of any difficulty.

In the extremely unlikely event you end up needing to call the Rangers, after you do please leave a comment here indicating that you've done so, so that (1) the Rangers don't get 10 calls; and (2) if I drag in here at 08:00, I can call them to call off the search!

I actually expect to be back here in 10-12 hours. Much obliged.

NOTE: I made it back fine! Please don't call. Thanks.

Posted by Me at 14:45 link