It was supposed to be a pleasant hike in the mountains with the dogs. Everyone needed a short walkabout. We loaded up (a little late because of me, and my silly need to eat breakfast and wear warm clothes), and drove through strong winds into the mountains. In fact, as we rounded the last curves past Barker meadow beneath the dam at Nederland, Mr S-P noticed a heavy mist near the treetops. The winds were so wild they were making four foot waves on the reservoir, with huge splashes coming over top of the dam. It was spectacular. We had a sporty drive up the four-wheel-drive roads, but it wasn't bad until we cleared the gate. The old truck is in desperate need of some more rugged tires. We hoped to get up to the clearing where there's a fire pit and a tiny shed, if not all the way to our usual parking spot. It was not happening. The truck failed to climb the steep hills in the snow. So we went backwards until we could point the nose of the truck downhill, and got out to hike.
And that's where the plan failed me. It should have occurred to me that if the truck couldn't make the hill in four wheel low, I wasn't making it up very far either. I was winded after the first hill, where we stopped driving. And my mouth was so dry, I couldn't even call out for water. I knew after the first time we paused to let me breath and drink that I wasn't going all the way up. But I tried anyway. I stopped again after the next hill, pointing at my mouth to ask for the water bottle in the man's backpack. I staggered up to the clearing, and had another gasping stop. I repeated my assertion that I didn't think I was getting all the way up to the campsite, but Mr S-P convinced me to try a little harder. I made it up to where the tree had fallen over on our last trip with the chain saw, and I called it. I took ownership of the fact that I was just an anchor, and I was going to head back to the truck while the man and the dogs finished the hike.
Even with my adorable walking stick, or maybe only with its assistance, it took me every bit as long to walk downhill in the snow as it did going up, and I only stopped twice to drink and take pictures on the way down. This is why I don't ski. I am terrified of slipping on a snowy downhill slope. I'm pretty sure I know what caused my overall difficulty. They keep messing with the medications I'm taking, and I started a new one on Thursday that so far I hate. The pharmacist told me to watch for unusual hoarseness, among other things, and I've had a sore throat and croaky voice since Friday. I'm not sure whether my incapacity for exercise is related, but my money says it is. But really, why is it that nearly all of the things my GI has prescribed cause unbearable dry mouth? I probably could have made it farther up that hill if my huffing and puffing hadn't dried out my mouth so much that I couldn't even close it.
The rest of my party made it all the way up to the campsite, reinforced the repair on the tepee, and came back down in maybe half an hour longer than it took me to creep down from the give-up point. Those dogs probably did the climb three times over. Those show-offs. Even Murray in his snow covered wheels was more sure-footed than I. But once they were down, the dogs slept the whole way home. They got the excitement they needed for the day, and really, so did I.
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