A Reckoning

A few days ago long-time friends Dennis and Katie spent a day and a half with me at the lake on their way home to B.C. They’re the kind of friends you can not see for a decade, and when you finally get together, it’s as though you’ve never been apart. They were last here in 2018, sensing it would be the last time they’d see Jack. They were right. A couple of years earlier, Jack and I had celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary with them at their beautiful home in Tweedsmuir Park, British Columbia.

After they’d settled in and we’d caught up a bit, they asked if there was anything special I’d like to do the following day—maybe something I hesitated to do alone. There was, in fact. Something I’d been thinking about all summer.

I’d like to hike Orphan Lake, I said.

Orphan Lake is an 8-kilometer loop trail in Lake Superior Provincial Park, half an hour drive from my camp. It’s a trail Jack and I hiked every year until a few years before his death. Do the math, and it will be obvious that I hadn’t hiked it for six or seven years. Six or seven years when you’re in your late 70s is significant, and I wanted to know if I could still do it.

Dennis and Katie are avid hikers and backpackers (and almost as old as I am).. I’m not in their class, nowhere near. They try to limit their backpacks to 30 pounds. I don’t carry anything heavier than my lunch. Maybe a raincoat. But they’ve been taking it a bit easier since Dennis’ open-heart surgery a year or so ago. This would be the longest, perhaps the most rugged trail he’d tackled since, but he was game. Eager, even.

It’s also a trail with a history for the three of us. Dennis and Katie were with us thirty-some years ago on a chilly October day when I broke my ankle on the trail and had to be carried out on a make-shift stretcher.

It’s never been an easy hike. It begins more or less level but soon drops abruptly down from highway level to Lake Superior. Much of the decline is through a rocky streambed with awkward footing, and emerges onto one of the lake’s many sand and cobble beaches. Then, it takes a longer return route, much of it steeply uphill. That’s what I was worried about. I’ve never been a good uphill climber. I keep up a pretty brisk pace on the level, but put me on a steep incline and I huff and puff and stop often. Just to enjoy the view, of course! I always have, and I always get there. Once you’ve gone down, you really don’t have much choice about climbing back up.

The decline was a greater challenge to footing and balance than I’d remembered, but I’m still pretty good in that department. I’m thankful for the trees and rocks to grab onto, though. I don’t think I used to rely on them so much. (And to those who advocate for walking sticks, I can’t imagine not having my hands free.)

We enjoyed a long rest and lunch on the beach before beginning the return trek out, which starts out as a lovely, level walk along the Baldhead River. But then…

It seems I was right to worry. Or did the worry actually contribute to my slow and heart-thumping return? I’d like to think so. I stopped so often to catch my breath that my Fitbit refused to acknowledge that I’d exercised at all!

Dennis and Katie urged me on, pampered me by carrying my pack, waited with me as I sat on countless logs and rocks to gather strength for the next stint, and tried to convince me not to feel humiliated (one of their few failures!). We recalled the climb out all those years ago with Jack and Dennis on two ends of a stretcher made from pine boughs and a raincoat while Katie ran ahead for help! How did they do it?? (They were 40-something, that’s how. And I was a bit lighter!)

When we finally reached the end of the climb and were back on the level, I trotted the final half-kilometer back to the car in fine form, trying to save face by taking the lead, but also truly enjoying the relief of a level trail.

What to make of this? And, for that matter, of the many such reckonings that are bound to confront me as time continues to catapult me into old age? On the one hand, it seems reasonable to answer that initial question—can I still do this?—with a reluctant no. No shame there, I tell myself; lots of people would never have done it. On the other hand, damn it, maybe if I try it again next year it will go better. But maybe not. I’ll be 78.

Some things, it’s obvious, you just have to let go. I’m afraid Orphan Lake is one of them. But maybe if I work at getting in better shape…