No Pain, No Gain

By Marylyn Cork

I never wanted to make that hike into upper Beehive Lake in the first place. My arthritic knees were stiff and sore. The tendonitis and toe bones rubbing together in my left foot (because I'd worn out the pads underneath them, according to the doctor), had kept me hobbling around like a worn-out crone all summer. I'd done little hiking since spring and was out of condition, and knew it.

My sister, however, only two years younger than my 72 years, and never as athletically inclined, was adamant. She was determined to hike that 4.6 miles up a steep North Idaho mountainside to a high lake neither of us had seen before-which meant, of course, another 4.6 miles back down again. Finally, however, I capitulated, telling myself "Anything she can do, I can do," and hoping it was true.

Rachel and I belong to the Monday Hikers, a large Sandpoint-based hiking club composed mainly of senior citizens. The oldest member of our group is 82 and still hiking. Recently, however, the club has split into two sub-groups. The older, less masochistically inclined of our number, now take easier hikes during the summer months than do those of us who still cling to a pretense of youth. (Winter has a way of forcing us all down into the lower elevations where we must, if we neither ski nor snowshoe, get our weekly exercise hiking plowed roads or groomed trails.)

Nothing stops the Monday Hikers. Not rain or snow or ice in winter or 100-degree temperatures in summer.

So here we were on that bright August morning, two senior sisters, having survived a jolting twenty-mile ride into the upper Pack River country, belting on fanny packs and striking out on an adventure with a dozen other intrepid souls, even though I still had misgivings about it. I'd survive, I was pretty sure of that, but what shape would I be in for the remainder of the week? I hated even to think about it.

Hiking up a mountain is a matter of simply putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again, and not dwelling too much on the physical effort involved. So far so good, I told myself, as we trekked along on a well-beaten path that didn't seem as steep, for the most part, as I'd feared. My feet, encased in a pair of well-worn hiking boots outfitted with new arch supports supplied by a Spokane podiatrist, felt surprisingly comfy. The weather was only pleasantly warm, and the shade of tall trees filtered out most of the sun's rays.

The trail, a remarkably pretty one, was hemmed in by huckleberry brush laden with ripe berries, and made colorful by a bevy of wildflowers, at least two species of which I couldn't recall ever having seen before. There were pearly everlastings in white abundance, red Indian paintbrush, tall purple asters, several species of yellow somethings, and many more, as well as the brilliant orange effulgence of mountain ash berries that took on a still greenish tinge as we climbed The air smelled like ambrosia and my greedy lungs drank it in.

In spite of the favorable temperature, I was soon sweating like a receding glacier under a hot sun, but climbed with a will, enjoying the views out over the valley to our left and far below, and the tips of the sun-kissed peaks toward which we were heading. This wasn't so bad, now was it? I was glad I'd come.

The feeling didn't last. About halfway up, the narrow trail that had been winding upward in a reasonably leisurely manner began to climb in earnest, in steep, short switchbacks, pointing us first one way, then back the other. That's when my lungs began to labor and my legs to protest. I protested a bit as well. "I knew I didn't want to do this," I grumped to my sister. "It's good for you," she said.

By the time that particularly troublesome series of switchbacks was conquered, I was ready to sit down on a rock and remain there while the others finished the climb. But pride wouldn't let me. Rachel and our companions were still steadily chugging up the mountain as nonchalantly as the sturdy mules that traverse the Grand Canyon's vertical Bright Angel Trail. I, however, hurt everywhere, and felt a bit lightheaded besides, which made me wish I'd remembered to use my asthma inhaler before I left home that morning. I've had two severe asthma attacks in my life, about forty years apart, and I never want to have another. It's no fun to have what feels like a boulder sitting on your chest.

My lungs adjusted after a breather, however, and I struggled on. The last pitch was a perpendicular torment up and over a monumental bare granite outcropping..., which our leader referred to as a "rock face." Not a particle of soil existed on which to hold a trail. Instead, a series of rock cairns in the form of "Indian postoffices"-presumably constructed by some blessed soul or souls many years before-pointed the way onward and upward. I threw myself down on a bump of rock next to one of my climbing companions, who was sampling his lunch on a nearby chunk of granite.

"I'm not going another step," I vowed. "I think that lake is a mirage."

But it wasn't. One of our group had carried a GPS device with him. "It's only 640 feet more to the lake," he called, coming back to encourage the rest of us who hadn't finished the climb yet. "Just through those trees ahead. You can make it."

And I did. The first glimpse of a beautiful high mountain lake, one of the prettiest I've seen, was enough of a reward to make me glad I'd persevered; and while the trek back down to the trailhead was yet another ordeal, affecting me more adversely than the climb up, my feeling of accomplishment still lingers. I soaked my aching body in a warm Epsom salts bath that evening and went to bed early, awakening the next morning feeler more pain free than I had in weeks. Creaky knees didn't ache. Foot felt good. Not much soreness anywhere and an improved outlook on life. Who can ask for anything more? Sometimes we just need to get out and move to feel better. Our bodies were made for movement; everything stiffens up as we grow older if we neglect to move.

Next hike, anyone?