Recovery . . .

A couple of 90-year-olds hung around our house most of the day yesterday. 

They did not wear masks. 

Furthermore, they didn't worry much about social distancing. 

After all, they took turns moving slowly around the house, and when both would actually discover that they were in close proximity, they couldn't move fast enough to get away from one another. 

Both did, however, take afternoon naps outside in their chairs while soft and comfortable breezes blew through the deck and front-yard area.

Ninety-year-olds really like those snoozes, I'm told. 

These two golden oldies also spent parts of the day continuing to move slowly and deliberately while reminiscing nostalgically of past times when they had experienced similar aches and pains of old age. 

One of the old geezers could have actually out-talked the other with his multiple stories of "extreme pain associated with big gains" of elevation because he had taken many more trips to mountain tops than the other.  

The other, however, brought up and even ranked three significant times, other than Saturday, when her body had required extensive time to return to normal. 

The Scotchman ascent back in the early 1980s was noted as the worst.  

More than seven days unfolded after that grueling hike before this person no longer had to plan every tiny strategic move while getting in and out of the car without having to gasp in pain.

Ranking second among the worst----the Strawberry Mountain hike about five years ago where the last four miles back to the car from the mountain top somehow, miraculously happened, even with continuous cramped-up legs. 

The cramps came from total stupidity----not carrying enough water on a hot, hot August day and being out of shape in the first place.  

The 2003 Tongariro passage in New Zealand included more tales from ON the 12-mile trail than afterward----especially the desperate plea, while lying face down at the summit, with 40 mph winds blowing sand and snow, "Call the helicopters so they can take me off this mountain!" 

Immediately following this feeble utterance came "You can do it, Mom, you can do it," from a daughter who trekked twice the distance as her mother, always trotting back up the trail with that same "can do it" fight song. 

Well, I did do it. 

Thanks, Annie. 

Yup, Bill and I may be in our 70s, but we both felt the true experience of AND even looked like miserable 90-year-olds most of the day.  

By the time the two 40-somethings rolled into the driveway late yesterday afternoon, got out of the car and moving a bit like 60-year-olds, Bill and I had pretty much worked out our kinks in all the places from our waists down, allowing us to at least feign appearing like 70- and 70-plus-year-olds.  

In fact, we probably both silently relished the pained look as our niece Laura slowly and deliberately got out of the white pickup, wasting no time to let the vehicle prop herself up as she leaned against it for some welcome-back conversation. 

"And, you two had to walk all the way back," she said with obvious empathy, reflecting on how she and Annie at least got to hang around their campsite at Two Mouth Lakes Saturday night rather than almost immediately having to hoof it back off the mountain.  

It's not often I say to a 45-year-old to please call us and let us know you arrived home.  Laura had about 80-plus miles to drive to her home in Plummer before she could take her shower and collapse.

When we received the text notifying us that she had arrived, we knew exactly how relieved Laura felt to, at last, be home and to finally let down her guard. After all, we had lived that same scenario the night before.

We also know how she and Annie must feel this morning as they urge their bodies out of bed and and start the process of remobilizing themselves, possibly with a little adaptation to save themselves from writhing hip or leg pain. 

There IS a process, and it does take time, but I feel this morning that the 90-year-old syndrome thankfully is becoming yet another passing memory. 

I also believe that I've had enough experience as a temporary geriatric to plot just what kind of steps taken will yield the least pain so when I really am 90, I can confidently say, "I got this."

We'll just let that idea rest for a while, though, as I've got some 70s and 80s yet to experience. 

And, maybe I'll be smart enough when future up-and-down hiking experiences come along to avoid another 90-year-old experience until the calendar sez it's so. 

Happy Monday from a recovering adventurer who, in spite of the aftermath misery, does actually feel like the gain was worth the pain. 

Heck, I even made myself walk (with great care) around the entire Lovestead yesterday and took some photos.

Enjoy.