It's Just a Hill

I noticed an alarming uptick in page views of this blog since it was mentioned on another blog.  Anonymity has its perks and I fear for the sanctity of my thoughts.  Of course a blog is nothing more than a private diary made public so we let the chips fall where they may when we disclose the location of our private thoughts.  But as they say "a life lived unexamined is barely worth living at all".  But when living in the country it is especially important to close the exam room door.  And to make sure your gown is securely fastened in the posterior because if your ass gets exposed, it will be kicked.  Of course I don't actually live in the country, nor do I live in the city.  I am, and always have been, a suburbanite.  A compromise where everyone is happy but few are content.















But now for my actual topic;  If you believe that only Himalayan mountaineers have to turn back 200 feet from the summit, then think again.  The Catskill 3500 Club requires the summiting of four Catskill mountains in winter for a reason: To separate the boys from the men . Or in our case, the girls from the men.  An actual self arrest is very rare below 12,000 feet and rarer still east of the Rocky Mountains, but that is exactly what I witnessed at 3800 feet near Windham NY  in the Catskill Mountains.  Blackhead Mountain is the fifth highest mountain in the Catskills at 3940 feet elevation and one of the four required peaks to be conquered in winter for admittance into the Catskill 3500 Club.  So for our annual Valentine's Day hike Tammy and I decided to knock the bastard off.  It would have been our final mandatory winter summit for entry into the club. "Would have been" being the point of this story.  I don't know if you have ever hiked in the Catskills but most summits have an official DEC sign posted at 3500 feet declaring that camping is off limits above this elevation.  If you are simultaneously a member of the Tea Party and the Catskill 3500 Club then I imagine this sign is like throwing salt in the wound of excessive government regulation.  But if, like me, you believe that perhaps there should be a tree left for our great grand children to enjoy then these signs might as well say "You're almost there!  You can do it!!!!!"  Kind of like your spouse cheering you on at the 26 mile mark during a 26.2 mile marathon.  So when we passed the sign on this hike I felt confident that  my summit PB&J would soon be in my hands.  Because let's face it, the walking uphill sucks but at least the victory lunch is good.

The trail was very steep and icy but quite doable until the 3700 foot mark. We had our microspikes on but I began to worry about getting back down.  There were no foot holds nor steps and the ice was rock hard.  At times the only thing getting us up was grabbing onto a tree branch and pulling ourselves up the ice.  And then when I grabbed one root and it broke sending me sliding into a rock, I started to have second thoughts.
Getting up a mountain is strenuous but not necessarily scary-just don't look behind you-but getting down is where the accidents happen.  Tammy was ahead of me having found a safer route but I was stuck on a ledge too scared to retrace my steps to follow her.  We could practically see the summit.  Then one false step and Tammy slipped and started careening past me, on her ass, heading straight for a drop off.  I am not making this up.  It was like a scene out of a movie except instead of Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger, I was Don Knots in the Shakiest Gun in the West.   After sliding about 15 feet Tammy reached out her arms and grabbed onto some overhead branches to accomplish a self arrest that reminded me of Spiderman grabbing onto a flag pole as he falls from the ledge of a skyscrapper.  If this sounds a bit dramatic, it was, because who expects this to happen in the Catskills?  Not me.

We could have made it 100 more vertical feet but now I was seriously alarmed about our dimming prospects for an event free descent.  One bad fall on my previously cracked  rib and all I could imagine was a punctured lung and a helicopter ride home.  A flare for the dramatic means I am never bored.  Is there shame in turning back 100 feet from the summit of a 3900 foot tall hill?  Perhaps, but now I get to go back with full on mountaineering boots, crampons, ice ax, and some rope.  Seriously.  I couldn't be happier.