I Hate Hiking…A Lot
I don’t get it. I do not understand hiking. A long, hard walk on a rocky, gritty trail, always uphill, carrying pounds of stuff that might be needed during this falsely named fun activity.
It’s hard. It’s work. It’s dangerous. There are things lurking out there like bugs, bad bugs. And snakes. Big snakes. With fangs.
I must have been a very weak and deranged state when I agreed to go on the hike. I have hiking boots, cute ones with red laces which I have always regarded as a fashion statement in an urban fashionista sort of way. The longest walk they ever took was through the mall.
Everyone needed a backpack with stuff. All kinds of stuff which included a watermelon. Because, well, everyone needs a watermelon a hike.
Trudging up the side of the mountain, watching the dust swirl and eddy, under the hot sun is nature at its best. For the rest of my very gung-ho group. I like nature well enough, observing from the other side of the window in a lovely climate-controlled environment. That is nature at its best.
So up the mountain they walked. I trudged. I kept my eyes glued to the dusty, parched trail on the lookout for snakes. Another creature out to get me. Slithering, snaky, lurking, waiting to strike. I know about “Snakes on a Plane,” they’re out there.
So, the plan is to hike to lovely spot that has a stream and have a break while consuming snacks and the watermelon. It felt like hours before we got to the stream. It was plodding, heavy, ankle watching. No way that could be characterized as walking. Walking is pleasant, a nice stroll on something like concrete, discussing the whatever, remarking on people and their dogs.
We finally get to the stream and there it was a trickle, slowly meandering to somewhere else and was down a muddy bank. The muddy bank was covered with weeds and grasses- the perfect hiding place for a snake.
One of the guys produced the watermelon, all happy and jolly with the thought of the stream cooling the thing. Another one produced a rope, all the better to tie up the watermelon and lower it into the trickle of water that was identified as the stream. A lot of loud arguing, head scratching and experimental rope tying and the watermelon was lowered into the stream. It wasn’t submerged because the water wasn’t deep enough, so it sat on the muddy bottom which made it even more appetizing.
Time passed, counted in swatting mosquitoes and on the look-out for snakes and maybe bears. The rumble was terrifying. It started low, a deep rumble and drew closer, gradually amplifying the volume as it approached. The motorcycles, a group of ten or so, all decked out in black leather, black bikes gleaming in the sun. They waved, happily motoring along, oblivious to the disruption of the serenity nature that they caused. Their glee at not hiking was palpable.
Finally, it was decided that the watermelon was cooled enough. The guys hauled it out of the trickling water. It took two of them, hand over hand, like they were hauling a barge. Lifting it off the streambed, dragging it through weeds, and I fervently hoped that they would not disturb the snake.
They hauled and grunted and gradually the watermelon appeared at the crest of the bank. It had made friends while it was there, a very large and very green frog was perched on top it. Its big froggy eyes swiveling to take all of us in. Its sticky toes clung firmly to the smooth watermelon. Its gaze was malevolent. It had appropriated the watermelon. It wanted it. It owned it.
It was christened a cute frog, but it had to go. With a jiggle of the watermelon, it leapt off. Back to the froggy depths of the stream. It looked back once with sad froggy eyes, missing its prize.
Frog smeared and mud coated, the watermelon was cut up and passed around. Ah’s all around for all the hard work of hauling it to the stream and the enjoyment of dining surrounded by nature. Nope. Watermelon by the pool is nature enough.
Watermelon happy, at least most of us, we began our return hike. The call of nature retreating into the dusty distance. My red laced boots were happy. The glint of sunlight on metal. The parking lot was in sight.
And there it was. A long black body slithering into the rocks between the grasses. It undulated as it wove through the cervices, away from the trail, tail flicked as it squirmed through the rocks. Fat black body trying to squeeze into the small rocky opening. My boots picked up the pace. Hard, hot asphalt was within reach.
Happy high fives, jovial backslaps were exchanged in the parking lot with the promise go hiking again the next weekend. Maybe with another watermelon. For fun.
As soon as I got home, I gave my red laced hiking boots away.
