Boom Boom Down Goes The Seaweed

I took one of my solo hikes this week.  It does me good to wander around in the hills surrounding Vacation City until my legs start to give out and my feet hurt, something that is happening earlier and earlier in the hike, I'm afraid.  I like being in nature and I like the fact that the physical exercise clears my head.  Because the terrain is not suitable for agriculture or housing I'm able to leave every one else behind very quickly even though I live in a hugely populated area.  It's not unusual if I don't see another person for 3 or 4 hours.  It's nice to stop for a minute, catch my breath, and hear only the sounds of nature.  It's not so nice, chicken-shit that I am, to imagine a bear or mountain lion taking me out or to mistake a bird rustling in the bushes for a big rattlesnake.  I'm acutely aware that by far the most dangerous part of my day is the drive out to the trails.  It just isn't a good day for me unless I have something stupid to worry about.

SuperK isn't exactly thrilled when I do this, although she puts up with it.  I wasn't much of an athlete when I was young and things have only gone down hill since then, so there's a very real possibility of me twisting or wrenching something a long way from any help.  I'm worried about rabid coyotes when I should be worried about breaking my leg and spending a night in the bush.  This was my first hike since the hike right before this one, the hike where I took a fairly nasty spill.  The trail I was on that time, of course, was the flattest, un-rockiest trail in the area except for one short spot where I had to do some ascending and then, by default, if I wanted to get back to my car, which I did, some descending.  I was carefully, carefully, making my way down a steep section, using my hiking poles, feet turned perpendicular to the slope for maximum grip - all of my previous falls have been in the going down part when I patch-out on lose gravel or dirt - mincing, really, as opposed to manly hiking, when I took a long step down, planted my foot on a big rock, which turned and skedaddled down the hill, leaving me in a bad spot.  I fell hard in the gravel, banging my arm on a boulder, before coming to rest on my . . . you know . . .  ass.  I took a breath, checked for broken bones, inspected the alarming amount of bright, red blood on my left arm and left leg, and struggled to my feet. Really what I had done was abraded skin on rock so I had a ton of little cuts - it looked pretty impressive but wasn't anything serious.  

I'm always surprised at how fast these kinds of things happen and how weird it is being in the event, vaguely aware that it could be bad.  There's a pause in reality where my mind becomes hyper-aware of what is going on and what the outcome could be.  That whole slow-motion thing is real.  And every time I come out the other end of something scary physically, in one piece, my old love-affair with my physical ass is rekindled.  I'm a little more careful about everything.  A day and a half in the jury pool had the same effect - it makes me appreciate how quickly a bit of hurry or inattention when I'm driving a couple of tons of glass and steel can have catastrophic consequences.

I was somewhat worried that SuperK might try to put her foot down on the solo hiking but like the married couple we are, it took her a couple of days to even notice my wounds, at first thinking that I had spilled jelly down my forearm.  The abrading process had produced a long, very red wound - it didn't hurt, it wasn't anything serious, and that part of my injury healed quickly, but it was kind of gruesome looking for a short stint.

"Huh," she said, or some such thing.  She's aware that I'm going to do what I want to do in matters not directly affecting other people.  It was a good response.  I respected it and thought it was, if anything, funny.  And as you can see it didn't stop me from going out by myself again.