With summer approaching, I got to thinking about the hike I took a couple summers ago on the Arethusa Falls trail in Crawford Notch, New Hampshire. We picked this hike because it is easy, with a well-maintained trail that's done in a stair-step fashion. That means tree roots won't jump out and trip you - which is definitely a good thing when you haven't been hiking in a very long time. The trail ends at the gorgeous and secluded Arethusa Falls, where we planned to have a picnic lunch.
We arrive at the trail head about 11 a.m. and set out. Somehow my husband, my younger son and I lost sight of our older teenage children, who both had hiked the trail when they were in 8th grade. We saw a sign that looked somewhat old, but like good little hikers we went the way it pointed because we certainly did not want to get lost!
As we're walking along, tripping over tree branches (We weren't supposed to be doing that, remember?), I thought to myself that this was no easy hike with a nicely maintained trail that I'd been led to believe. But on we went, being grateful that I'd worn my low-cut Nike hiking shoes instead of my old heavy hiking boots. I also wondered why we weren't coming up on any other people, but figured since we were on the trail...
I used to teach special education to kids with severe disabilities. In 8th grade, they had managed the trail. As we forded a small stream and jumped across a small chasm, I couldn't figure out how that could possibly be. After all, they didn't have the best coordination. Maybe I was in worse shape than I thought. Soldiering on, over slippery rocks, up hills, through trees and overgrown shrubs (Where was my machete when I needed it?) we finally came to a river. We had to be close to the falls now, right?
Wrong!
How on earth were we going to get across this river - about 25 feet across - without killing ourselves, or worse, breaking a leg? There was no way to do it without getting my new Nike hiking shoes wet. (I hate soggy shoes!) We gingerly picked our way across the river, climbed (yes, climbed) the embankment (What the heck was going on? Where were my other kids -- I hope they're not lost. Whose idea of a well-maintained trail was this anyway?) and plodded on. We were sweating and dirty. I was tired and hungry and worried. Our short 45 minute hike had turned into two hours!
At last we made it to the falls. To our surprise, other people were there. People who were not my other children. After about 20 minutes of waiting, we started to ask around to see if anyone had seen my kids. Nobody had. I noticed that more people were arriving and leaving the falls from the other side of the river. None of them were sweating. None of them were dirty. None of them had soaking wet Nikes.
My husband and I conferred. Should we go back the way we came or try the other trail? We decided that at least we knew what to expect on the trail we had hiked in on. What if the other one was worse. Looking back, I have no idea why we didn't just go to the other side of the river and check out the other trail! The bug spray we were coated in must have short-circuited our brains.
Back we went, on the same trail we'd taken in. Back over the river, over slippery rocks, through overgrown shrubbery, across mini-rivers with mini-chasms. It was not any easier the second time. In fact, in some ways it was harder and more treacherous.
The trail got narrower. (I didn't remember it being this narrow the first time.) We had to skirt around a pine tree where the trail was a sloping six inches wide. I decided to get as close to the ground as I could, thinking that a lower center of gravity would be helpful. Not a good plan. Before I knew it, I was hanging onto a skinny tree root trying to keep myself from slipping down a 40 foot drop. It was a near miss. If my husband had not been able to grab my arm, I wouldn't be writing this today.
We arrive at the trail head about 11 a.m. and set out. Somehow my husband, my younger son and I lost sight of our older teenage children, who both had hiked the trail when they were in 8th grade. We saw a sign that looked somewhat old, but like good little hikers we went the way it pointed because we certainly did not want to get lost!
As we're walking along, tripping over tree branches (We weren't supposed to be doing that, remember?), I thought to myself that this was no easy hike with a nicely maintained trail that I'd been led to believe. But on we went, being grateful that I'd worn my low-cut Nike hiking shoes instead of my old heavy hiking boots. I also wondered why we weren't coming up on any other people, but figured since we were on the trail...
I used to teach special education to kids with severe disabilities. In 8th grade, they had managed the trail. As we forded a small stream and jumped across a small chasm, I couldn't figure out how that could possibly be. After all, they didn't have the best coordination. Maybe I was in worse shape than I thought. Soldiering on, over slippery rocks, up hills, through trees and overgrown shrubs (Where was my machete when I needed it?) we finally came to a river. We had to be close to the falls now, right?
Wrong!
How on earth were we going to get across this river - about 25 feet across - without killing ourselves, or worse, breaking a leg? There was no way to do it without getting my new Nike hiking shoes wet. (I hate soggy shoes!) We gingerly picked our way across the river, climbed (yes, climbed) the embankment (What the heck was going on? Where were my other kids -- I hope they're not lost. Whose idea of a well-maintained trail was this anyway?) and plodded on. We were sweating and dirty. I was tired and hungry and worried. Our short 45 minute hike had turned into two hours!
At last we made it to the falls. To our surprise, other people were there. People who were not my other children. After about 20 minutes of waiting, we started to ask around to see if anyone had seen my kids. Nobody had. I noticed that more people were arriving and leaving the falls from the other side of the river. None of them were sweating. None of them were dirty. None of them had soaking wet Nikes.
My husband and I conferred. Should we go back the way we came or try the other trail? We decided that at least we knew what to expect on the trail we had hiked in on. What if the other one was worse. Looking back, I have no idea why we didn't just go to the other side of the river and check out the other trail! The bug spray we were coated in must have short-circuited our brains.
Back we went, on the same trail we'd taken in. Back over the river, over slippery rocks, through overgrown shrubbery, across mini-rivers with mini-chasms. It was not any easier the second time. In fact, in some ways it was harder and more treacherous.
The trail got narrower. (I didn't remember it being this narrow the first time.) We had to skirt around a pine tree where the trail was a sloping six inches wide. I decided to get as close to the ground as I could, thinking that a lower center of gravity would be helpful. Not a good plan. Before I knew it, I was hanging onto a skinny tree root trying to keep myself from slipping down a 40 foot drop. It was a near miss. If my husband had not been able to grab my arm, I wouldn't be writing this today.
Eventually, we made it back to the trailhead, my soggy new Nike hiking shoes squish, squish, squishing as we walked back down to the parking lot. I fully expected to see my other kids. They were not waiting at the car! Good grief! Where were they? After another half an hour, they arrived, demanding to know where we'd been all this time, like it was us that had gotten lost. Kids.
*while the story is true, the names of the shoes have been changed to protect the innocent :) (and because this is a sponsored post).
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