We attempted a full moon night hike up Iron Mountain last night. I was excited to test out my new backpack and trekking poles (or "sticks" as we are referring to them now). I was also looking forward to the serenity and peacefulness of being out at night with the crickets chirping, coyotes yapping, and cool sweet breeze wafting through the canyon. The moon rose and hung on the horizon like a luminous orange orb and my sharp intake of breath when I saw it panicked Dennis and made him swerve on the road. "What is it, what is it?!" he said, thinking he was going to hit another car. I said "It's the moon. Look."
We got to the trailhead and started walking at 6:30pm- 63 degrees. I had 20 pounds in my backpack and it felt good, evenly distributed and rested well on my back. It took a few minutes to get used to my "sticks" but I ended up liking them quite well.
We were not even 1/2 mile into the hike, not even to the climb yet, and Dennis was sucking wind. Apparently he decided to stuff his backpack to the gills so now it was close to 30 pounds. This backpack he's using is a day pack and all the weight was on his shoulders. His real backpack is too expensive for us to get right now. We start climbing and climbing and I stop periodically to gaze at the moon trying to ignore Dennis's stress energy that pours off him like an electric current. We hit little pockets of warm air and every time I sing out "Hot Pocket!" like the Hot Pocket commerical. Dennis is not amused. I don't even think he hears me. Climbing some more. I sing out "I see the moon and the moon sees me, God bless the moon and God bless me!"
1.3 miles up I hear behind me a skitter skatter of trekking poles and body parts tumbling down and then blood curdling screaming. I turn around and Dennis is laying in the middle of the trail, clutching his leg, and screaming bloody murder. I stand still and survey the scene. It is a familiar scene to me and a situation that I've been in before with Dennis's proclivity to hurt himself. I look up the trail and down the trail- no one is coming so I wait out the screams. "What's the damage?" I ask. Sprained ankle and we can't continue up so we turn around and head back. I'm glad Dennis is able to hobble off the mountain and didn't break a leg but I am also a little pissed. I warned him about too much weight too soon with the crappy backpack. But this is how he "trains" he assures me. He's done this many times before so I can't help but feel maybe he should change his training tactic. Baby steps instead of balls to the wall. To each his own, I suppose. As we continue down the hill, I can hear him behind me repeatedly saying "Son of bitch, son of bitch, son of a bitch..." and then the gear tirade "I need night vision goggles, these shoes suck, this backpack sucks...." Periodically I still stop and try to gaze at the moon, shining like a distant pool, collecting peace to myself like so many lit candles. I can hear Dennis buzzing in the background and we turn to walk again.
We make it back down to the truck and Dennis feels bad that we had to turn around. I feel bad that he hurt himself. I hope he has a fast recovery. He says his trail name is the Sluggish Cryin' Hawaiian instead of the Flyin' Hawaiian. We got a good cackle out of that.
As we exit I call "Goodbye, Moon, Goodbye!" (a play on words from a line in the Christmas movie, Prancer).
Until the next full moon attempt November 28....
I'll post a few pictures separately if they turned out in the dark.
Next up: Oregon for Thanksgiving!
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