The besties and I are back on on track with regard to actually completing these happiness challenges. For the better part of the last year, I've posted the playing cards on which they're so nicely written on the kitchen corkboard and stared at them each morning/night while I waited for my microwaveable meals to cook. Remember that time I started a blog with the intention of trying a new recipe each week? Hah.
For those of you in tune with the running world or who know what those ubiquitous "13.1" stickers on every Prius out there signify, a half-marathon is 13.1 miles in length (and I'd have about that percent chance, at best, of surviving one). I have no idea when it became chic to actually pay to run these insane lengths of distance with hundreds or even thousands of other equally-crazy people, but that's a rant for another post. Point is, the latest Happiness Challenge resulted less in happiness and more in a hike that was (albeit accidentally) the same length as one of these nightmares.
"Hike Old Rag mountain." Sounds easy enough, as it's deemed "one of the most popular hikes in the mid-Atlantic region." Mini road trip to Shenandoah National Park on a Sunday morning? "Spectacular panoramic views"? Sure, sign me up.
Our trek to Old Rag started off great. The three of us set our alarms for 8 a.m. (thank goodness we're morning people), packed what we thought were sensible snacks in appropriate portion sizes for an 8-mile hike and hit the dusty trail. We dusted off and listened to CDs (helllllllllo 2003) of music we liked in high school/early college and commented on how proud of ourselves we were for being so outdoorsy and accepting this challenge. (Please note two-thirds of us were wearing lululemon athletic gear from head to toe, so we were about as ready for a hike as we were for a Sunday Starbucks run at home in the suburbs).
When we pulled up to the ranger station at the entrance to the park, we eagerly waved a crisp $20 bill to cover the daily visitor fee. Looking back, we should have connected the dots when we asked the park ranger for directions to Old Rag and she looked at us like I imagine my grandmother would look if I asked her for illegal drugs. "It's raining. You can't climb that today." Crap.
It took me a few minutes to calm down after Ranger Rachel (not her actual name, alliteration just sounds better here)
Things started off well. We were energized, in tune with nature and didn't have to pee. The good times kept on rolling until mile five or so. Hiking is hard, folks. We knew we had only three miles to go, but sandwiches were gone, bladders were full, and the Athletic One wanted to forge this trail at a grueling pace, while the rest of us were content to go "steady" with a chance of "strenuous." Thankfully, we forded a couple of rivers and lost a couple wagons tongues, but somehow prevented having to hunt for food or deal with dysentery. That was until mile seven or so.
It's 2012. Who in their right mind thinks that this is the best way to signify which direction a trail goes in the middle of the freaking woods?
I should mention that while this is a photo from the interwebs, the actual trail markers were much more faded and much less helpful. And the same person who decided that this smear of paint on a tree should suffice also determined that the colors signifying each of the trails should range from sky blue to cornflower.
You see where I'm going with this, yes? Good. That'll save me time. Despite our impressive map-reading skills and above-average intelligence, we took a wrong turn (just one I think, but who can really be sure?) and quickly recognized we'd added more than four miles to what was supposed to be an 8-mile loop. Immediately following this realization, there was an odd mix of nervous laughter, anger and sheer panic. Spinning and kickboxing twice a week does not a fit person make, and I was not up for another two hours of agony (a fact my screams made clear to my friends and the rest of the hikers within several hundred yards of us). That's the funny thing about hiking though - there is no victory van that will pick you up and provide you with celebratory kudos bars and a capri sun.
Our collective final decision was to walk three miles on the side of the road back to the car, rather than two on the trails. Yes, I can do simple math, but I was absolutely not having any more nature at this point. As we trudged along the shoulder of the windy mountain road, Athletic One shook her fists at each of the cars that drove by. We made jokes about hitchhiking, but thought better of that despite our misery (no, I do not want my bones made into wind chimes). Cue our guardian angel.
By this point we were all so delirious we weren't speaking, so when the 60-something lady that looked vaguely like Sophia Petrillo pulled over and asked if we wanted a ride in her Highlander, no discussion was necessary. There were two dogs, the offer of jelly beans and a whole lot of breathless "thank you so much"s. Granny was great, and within five minutes we were back to the car alive and well. Well, alive anyways.
We ended the evening with the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday's. Calculating that we each burned at the very least a day's worth of calories, we knew there was no amount of ranch dressing or delectable pumpernickel croutons that would catch up with us or our thighs. It was a calorie-filled salad bar massacre, and it was worth every penny of its nine-dollar price tag.
I'll conclude this post with the most important lessons I learned from this episode of me vs. nature:
1) Hiking is hard
2) Just because Tina Fey did something does not mean you can do it
3) Do not text your fiance "can't talk, in a stranger's car." It causes immediate hysteria and subsequent lectures.
