Hiking with Katie

Friend (because apparently Unnamed Friend doesn't work for one of her friends - I honestly have tried to figure out what to call her and struggle with it to this very moment. I'm not sure why I can't just decide.) and I went back to the scene of my recent pictures since my parents didn't want to do any hiking when I was there before.

So she drove and we parked the car at the spot I thought would be ideal for beginning. And the beginning was ideal. Rushing water, people who would come, then quickly go. Gentle climbs to actual streams and pleasant photo opportunities. I liked it very much, and settled comfortably on a rock to watch the water, thinking that I was quite a good hiker after all.

So delusional was I that when we climbed back up the hill to the path, I said, "I think we can walk to the next one from here." And it went downhill (and uphill and across forests) from there.

"You go ahead." I advised Friend when faced with the suspended bridge. See that thin black line parallel to the top of the falls? I had to walk across that. "I don't like the way my head feels afterward. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy. I'll start when you're almost all the way there. I go alone."

So I made it - feeling rather sick, off-balance and very bouncy (in a bad way) - then climbed a bunch of very steep steps. It was with profound gratitude that we sat down to rest shortly afterward. I thought I was OK after I could breathe again, but my comments throughout the hike indicate otherwise.

"You know the problem with hiking? I spend more time looking at my feet than what's around."

"That rock was loose! I almost fell! Now I don't trust those rocks."

"It sounds like a herd of elephants, but it's just me!"

I frowned when we made it to the next waterfall and Friend said we could head down to the bottom.

"It's only 0.4 miles down. Then 0.4 miles back up." She said.

"Maybe we could go halfway." I suggested, thinking I'd probably be tired. And those hills were hard. I was noisy rustling through the leaves. And my ankles ached from turning them wrong.

"If I'm going down that hill, we're getting to the water." She responded, apparently unmoved by my frowning concern. So we did.

My predictions?

Well, I was right when I said, "I'm going to feel really badly when those kids pass me." On the way down, the children hopped down rocks that were half as tall as their small bodies. On the way back up, the scampered up the freaking steep hill without nearly as much panting as I was doing.

I was wrong when I thought it would be much harder to climb the hill than descend it. While I did do some panting and resting on the way up, it was much scarier on the way down. I slipped more than once. Got my shoe stuck between some rocks. And dealt with legs shaking from either fear or strain. I wasn't sure which.

We did make it most of the way - I wouldn't climb the "last 0.01 mile!" and settled on a rock to shiver delicately and watch the water hit the rocks at the base of the falls. It was pretty - it looked and sounded really nice.

We hiked back toward the car after I looked through the camera at a rapidly retreating Friend after saying, "Wait. And smile!" I sat down once after climbing most of the 0.4 miles out the giant hole into which the water fell. I leaned against a tree when we were almost back to the bouncy bridge and considered just living there. I was rather tired.

But after waiting on one side of the bouncy bridge and watching people carry their terrified hound across it (after trying to drag him, then dropping him. Poor, sweet dog.), I allowed the couple to go, then allowed Friend to get halfway across before moving quickly across myself.

"I want off. I want off. I want off! I'm scared. I want off!" But then - with a bouncy-feeling head and trembling body - I followed her to the car and we headed off to dinner. Then Friend finished the drive home while I giggled at her frustration over people who coasted uphill to avoid taking the curvy parts too fast. I sighed over how tired I was.

I only yelled once. Something about "Not that way! What are you doing?!" when I thought she was entering the Do Not Enter part of the road as it spread from two lanes to four.

Then I bounced as she hit the thing in the road.

"There was something in the road. I was trying to avoid it." She explained.

"But you did hit it." I offered earnestly. After receiving a frowning look and perhaps some comment from her, I decided not to offer my firm agreement when she said the car seemed to be filling with a skunk-like odor.

I decided that by the point I done enough for one day. Which is good, actually, since I'm a bit sore and quite exhausted.