THIS IS NOT A RACE!

“THIS IS NOT A RACE!” Parents taking their children hiking know that phrase all too well. A child zooming down a trail at mach 1 leaving bedraggled parents behind with nothing left to do but yell at a their backside is a common sight. It was no different when I was a growing up. Our frequent trips to the mountains gave me the opportunity to tear down any trails we happened to step onto, leaving dust, and the rest of my family, behind.

At the age of 30 I rekindled my love for the mountains and hiking. Three compatriots and I completed a 64 mile trek across the northern section of Glacier National Park in Montana, a trip inspired in no small part by the multiple family trips to the park in my youth. Mom and Dad had assisted our group all the way across the park, dropping us off at the original trailhead, taking a boat down Waterton Lake to meet us after four days with a food resupply, and finally meeting us at Bowman Lake with vehicles to take us back into town.

Upon arriving at Bowman Lake at the end of our trip, I was mentally and physically exhausted. While planning the trip I had mentioned to my dad that the Numa Ridge Lookout hike began at the same place our backpacking trip ended. I suggested that a day hike up there might be a fun way to cap off the trip. But the previous 8 days had been enough for me. The thought of adding another 11 miles and 2500 feet of elevation change to my already blistered and battered feet left my brain numb. I didn’t want to go and neither did any of my hiking buddies, but dad’s interest was obvious. With much reluctance, and telling myself that after this hike I could just sit for months and do nothing if I wanted, I agreed to go with him. What I didn’t know then was this would be the last hike I would ever take with my father.

As we began down the trail I noticed my mindset changing. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this hike indeed was a little different; it was a race, one I was intent on winning. In my entire life I had never been able to out last my father in any kind of athletic event that required endurance. Despite my litany of athletic accomplishments, he was king in our family of any activity that lasted longer than 2 minutes. I could not out run nor out hike him. Now, having just finished this massive trip and probably in the best shape of my life, I was bound and determined to show him I could finally out hike him. In some twisted testosterone driven way, it was a right of passage. Things were going well in my life. I had a good job and felt like I finally was beginning to get my head around this “being an adult” thing. This hurdle, however, as insignificant and ridiculous as it might appear too many, had always been one I couldn’t clear. In my own way this was how I would prove to my father that I was grown up, I needed to overthrow the king.

I began the climb with a good pace and never relented. But every time I looked behind me, there he was, smiling and happily conversing with me, asking this or that about the trip. I, on the other hand, was in hell. My feet burned with every step as my blisters ground mercilessly against my leather boots. Sweat poured down my face and sunglasses, stinging my eyes and distorting my vision. But I wasn’t giving up. No, not this time, this was my time. 4 miles in and he remained right with me, always looking like he was enjoying this hike a lot more than I was. As we neared the lookout we began a series of switchbacks and the trail steepened. I chugged, huffed, and drove myself up the hill. He followed behind, step for step. As we climbed above the tree line out into the exposed sun and heat of the final mile up to the lookout, my will began to wither. I began to think that once again he would prove stronger than I. As I rounded the second to last switch back I looked behind and almost fainted when I saw he wasn’t on my heals. He had dropped 50 yards behind me, the strain of the climb finally showing on his face, his smile gone. There is was, I had won. I had finally out hiked my father. I can’t explain the joy that brought, not because he was struggling, but because I had finally been able to win at his game. I had gone into his world and left him behind. I gleefully, but painfully, cruised up the rest of the trail from there.

No words about “the race” were exchanged at the top, but any thoughts that I had been the only one to notice were quickly erased when, as we prepared to descend, dad said, “I’ll lead down”, and rocketed down the trail. I could barely keep up. I kept watching his feet thinking they seemed to float along the trail never quite slowing down enough to actually touch it, like something out of a Roadrunner cartoon. My fun was over, now it was his turn to show me he wasn’t done being king of the hill quite yet. It didn’t matter to me, I had my victory, I had won my race, and he could win his. We never discussed the event.

So it was today that I found myself once again hiking up to the Numa Ridge Lookout, 6 years and 363 days since the last time I had been there. I hadn’t given the trail much thought; it was just the trail I was going to hike today. About halfway up I was checking my watch and comparing my hiking time to what I remembered doing before, when it dawned on me that this was the last trail dad and I had hiked together. Dad passed away from ALS 29 months after our final hike, at the age of 60. ALS robs it’s victims of their ability to use their bodies. The neurological pathways that connect the brain and the body simply stop functioning; the brain can no longer send messages to the muscles, so the muscles stop working. While patients experience symptoms in different orders, for my father, his problems began with his legs. In conversations I had with him after his diagnosis he told me that, as he thought back on things, he first began to notice having problems on the trip west that had included our climb to Numa Ridge Lookout. Although he only mentioned noticing the effects during an incident when he was running in Yellowstone, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt as I immediately recalled our hike and my concocted victory.

As I continued my climb, my thoughts drifted back to when dad and I together walked this same path. I could easily picture his black hiking boots, runner’s calves, olive green shorts that were far too long then but that would right in style today, his gray “Glacier National Park” t-shirt with mountain goats on it, his Philmont scout belt, something he proudly wore even though almost 2 decades had passed since our trip there, and his Red Wing’s cap. An avalanche of memories careened through my mind and I suddenly recalled a lesson I too often forget and one I wish I had remembered 7 years ago. I chuckled, slowed my pace, and put the watch away. At least for today I remembered, “THIS IS NOT A RACE!”