There is a gross amount of satisfaction that follows the accomplishment of a great feat. This motivates people to push their bodies to extreme limits for all sorts of reasons. There’s the love of the sport, the thrill of the challenge, and the consequential nod in the history books. Who was it that climbed the mountain because it was there? I, on the otherhand, climb a mountain so I don’t ever have to do it again. So there lies Half Dome, once for the taking, once to be conquered, and of course, a trip I don’t have to plan.
I was quite apprehensive about the trek, primarily because I was unable to participate in all three preparatory hikes. Somehow, ten minutes on a stairmaster at a Holiday Inn in Trenton, Ontario did not suffice as adequate training. Granted, I did it three days in a row, but well, ya, I know. Dave was also unhappy that I wanted to do the hike in my trail runners. So I got myself a new pair of hiking boots, which I broke in at the office two days before our trip. After much heckling, my seasoned hiking coworkers gave me great advice about layering polyester clothes and socks, and how to tie my boots. All went well, the boots were comfortable, my legs didn’t give out, and I didn’t lose my nerves at the base of the dome. But then the unimaginable happened.
After taking an alternate fork in the climb to the cables, Rich and I followed a couple up a narrow, less traveled incline that we hoped would intersect the ascending cables. I actually had a flash of revolt, thinking we should traverse back to the base to find the proverbial road more traveled. But I trusted my brother, who is much more experienced in the outdoor arts. As soon as I swung my left leg around to follow my right, which had found a sandy foothold, Tupperware fell from the sky.
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