Hiking

I found my first cana last month. One long, thin strand, buried in my beard, just a little to the left of my chin. A grey hair in a forest of brown.

I'm not upset. This was expected. My dad's been dyeing his mustache since he was 33. My uncles all went grey in their late 20s. Growing up, I constantly found boxes of Rogaine and hair-dye on the bathroom counter. In six months, I turn 30. Honestly, I'm more surprised that I didn't find one sooner.

People get old. It happens. Time and Tide detergent wait for no man. Hair goes grey, skin wrinkles, boobs sag. The aesthetic components of aging don't bother me so much.

It's the other stuff I'm worried about.

Delma and I were in the Bay Area recently. My best friend from high school was getting married in Sonoma so we flew out to celebrate the beauty of love and also to find out just how much free cabernet sauvignon I could drink in one sitting (the waiter kept refilling my glass which means technically I don't actually know how much I drank, but I dropped a flaming marshmallow on the terrace, so suffice to say, it was a fair amount).

The day before the wedding, we drove to Big Basin State Park for some good old-fashioned hiking. Big Basin is California's oldest state park, containing over 18,000 acres of nature-y stuff. Towering redwoods hundreds of years old, bright-yellow banana slugs that look like poop, waterfalls that fill you with sadness because they're actually more like watertrickles cus, you know, drought.

The various trails cover 81 miles. Delma chose a series of routes that would hit most of the interesting sights in just under 12. If we maintained a moderate pace of 3 mph and kept our stops to a minimum, we figured we'd be done in about 4.5 hours.

It took us nearly seven.

The hike started off great. It was early enough that the weather was cool and the trees provided us with plenty of shade.

At the two-mile mark, we were still fresh and full of energy. The redwoods were so tall, in order to see the tops of the trees, you had to crane your head so far back that your neck would start to hurt ("Whooooooa-ouch").

At the four-mile mark, we were far enough from other people that, if we stopped to listen, we could appreciate the sounds of the forest. The chirp of a jay. The babbling of a brook. The creaking of a redwood swaying with the wind. We actually came across several fallen redwoods and it creeped me out to think that, with a strong enough gust, a tree could come crashing down and crush us at any moment. Ka-splat.

After three and a half hours, we hit mile six and reached Berry Creek Falls. There was a conveniently situated bench on a ledge overlooking the waterfall/trickle. Delma and I plopped down and ate Clif bars in silence, relishing the fact that we were halfway done. Tired, we were still confident we could complete the hike in another two hours.

From the bench, you could see people passing by the base of the waterfall. Several hikers came and went, stopping to admire the falls. Most stayed for a minute or two, but there was one older guy who was sitting on a rock for quite a while, studying his map splayed out on the ground, a worried look on his face. He was probably in his 60s. A protruding belly, bald spot on the top of his head, white beard full of canas. The dude was very obviously wiped out from the hike and it seemed like he was wondering whether to keep going or turn back. Either way, it'd be another six miles. He simply sat there, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, exasperated at the situation.

"Man, I feel so bad for him," I said to Delma.

At that age, there are some activities that just have to come off the table. Free solo rock climbing, cross-country skiing, vigorous sexual escapades. I guess a moderate twelve-mile hike is another one.

After a few more minutes of watching the poor guy try to figure out his next move, Delma and I got up and left.

I can't imagine waking up one day and realizing that your physical capabilities are no longer what they used to be. That day has not yet come for me, but I know it's approaching. The thought of it makes me anxious. I already wake up with aches and pains in my lower back, random muscles hurting more than they used to. Here is a short list of parts of my body that are tight: hamstrings, pec minor, hip flexors, ankles (did you know you tight ankles was a thing? Cus it is most definitely a thing).

Two years ago, none of those were issues. The only tightness I experienced was in my pants. In my crotch (haha, nah, I'm just playin'). Now I have to foam roll for at least half an hour every day or the tightness becomes uncomfortable.

And it's only going to get worse.

A creative director once told me that, at 40, everything turns to shit. Your body starts breaking down, your digestive system goes to hell. You start forgetting things.

At 40, you begin to understand that you're not immortal, that your days are numbered.

We kept hiking. Watch out for rocks, avoid the roots. Admire the trees, check out the slug. Yes, it was all beautiful, but at that point, Delma and I had run out of conversation topics and mainly kept to our ourselves.

I kept thinking about the old dude back at the falls.

When did that happen? Was it a gradual change? Was he unable to do a fifteen-mile hike, then twelve, then ten? Or did it happen overnight? What else is he unable to complete?

And how much longer until I become like him?

Mile eight came and went without much fanfare. We were definitely tired. Twelve miles of hiking doesn't sound so difficult until you realize that it's not a straight shot. It's twelve miles of up and down and up and down and whoa, we're above the trees and then whoa, look at all the tree trunks and then damn, we've only gone half a mile?

At one point, the grass and trees turned into rocks and boulders. We could see the tops of the redwoods below us, sharp-skinned hawks flying overhead.

In what should have been a moment of tranquility, I was instead filled with panic.

"We need to travel more," I said to Delma.

"I agree," she said as she continued down the trail.

"No, but like, soon. Like... now."

She stopped.

"Sure. Ok. Why?"

Delma knows that when I get in these panicked moods, she needs to talk to me in a slow, reassuring tone. Maintain eye contact, make no sudden movements. Basically, she needs to treat me like I'm seven.

"How long will we be able to do this kind of stuff? Like, if we go to Patagonia when we're sixty, are we going to be able to climb mountains? Will we have to take naps?"

Delma nodded.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But we'll still be able to do plenty of traveling," she said.

We kept hiking.

"Besides, if you take care of yourself, you can still do plenty of things when you're old."

She was right. Of course.

A few months back, hiking up the side of a hill in the Faroe Islands, we had to take a ten-minute breather on a pile of rocks. A dude who looked like he was in his 60s (although he wasn't fat or bald or bearded) hiked right past us, at a moderate pace, sticking his trekking poles into the ground after each step. He saw us, waved, then disappeared into the fog above.

You hear stories of old people performing crazy feats of athleticism all the time. Competing in triathlons, deadlifting 400 pounds. This isn't super impressive, but my dad still jogs 3-4 miles a day at the ripe, old age of 69 (haha, yeahhh).

We kept walking, but I couldn't shake that feeling of unease, that sense of urgency. And it wasn't so much about traveling or my deteriorating physicality.

It was about recognizing my limits. Physical and otherwise.

By mile ten, we were completely silent, trying to focus on sucking in air for the next step. Breathe, step, breathe, step. Lactic acid was building up in our muscles, our thighs burning with every movement.

We would stop for a few minutes, then push on, then stop again, the keep going. Each pause brought more relief, each start brought more pain. Getting up became difficult, our legs wobbling as we braced ourselves for a few more minutes of hiking.

At this age, six months from 30, I have to recognize what I can and cannot do. Cardio kickboxing? Sure. Run a half-marathon? Probably. Dunk a basketball? No way.

Honestly though, up until I saw that old dude struggling, I didn't care about those. The fact that I might not be able to do them soon made me want to do them, if that makes sense. You always want what you can't have.

But recognizing my physical limits forced me to recognize others. Or at least consider the possibility that some of my goals may be unrealistic.

It's a scary thought.

Our generation was raised with the belief that, if you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything. Through sheer will, any goal you have, any passion, any dream is attainable. And that's just not true. No matter how much I believe I can be president of the United States, it's highly improbable. It's nearly impossible that I will be in a boy band at this age (nearly impossible. Not totally impossible. I'm still holding onto a sliver of hope that I can replace Zayn, but that's my last shot).

Some people will say "Not with that attitude!" Is it defeatist? Sure. Maybe. But also maybe it's me being a realist. Maybe I need to lower my expectations and redefine my goals. I need to realize what is possible with my talent and skill set. And what isn't.

Or maybe I'm just making excuses for my future failures.

Who knows.

After another hour of literally focusing on taking it one step at a time, we reached the end of the trail. Mile 12. Well, mile 11.7 if you want to be specific. Right back where we started (kinda. We popped out slightly left of where we entered so we couldn't find the right parking lot and had to hike for an extra twenty minutes. I blame Delma). We sat in our rental Fiat and massaged our thighs for half an hour, trying to regain the feeling in our legs.

Like I said before, I'm not concerned with the aesthetics of aging. Looks have never been my strongest feature (that honor goes to my impeccable punctuality. Or my tiny heinie). And, I'm ok with not being able to dunk or bench 320 or climb Everest. Like I said, the only reason I spazzed out was because, pretty soon, those activities will be out of reach.

I am worried that what I want to accomplish now won't be feasible when I'm older. Or at least become exponentially more difficult. I have to step back, reevaluate my goals and prioritize. Figure out what I really want out of life.

And if it's achievable? Then I go for it.

And if not?

I don't know, man.

Just keep hiking, I guess. Until I can't.

Then just figure out where to go from there.