From wikipedia:

• Class 1: Hiking.
• Class 2: Simple scrambling, with possible occasional use of the hands.
• Class 3: Scrambling, a rope can be carried but is usually not required.
• Class 4: Simple climbing, with exposure. A rope is often used. Natural protection can be easily found. Falls may well be fatal.
• Class 5: Technical free climbing. Climbing involves rope, belaying, and other protection hardware for safety.

I asked myself on the way home: would I have done this if I had known what I know now?

Yes, yes, absolutely yes.

Life is rarely simple. Life becomes extraordinarily simple when the only decision you have to make involves the next placement of foot or of hiking pole; when you have room for minor mis-steps but major ones will send you tumbling down the side of the mountain. Life then becomes a matter of relaying information to the person behind you. "Squishy here." "Rock's loose." "Slippery."

Everything else—even snapping photographs—had to wait.

[the view of nearby mountains]

My introduction to hiking was a class 4 slope. No rope, though there was a spot on Wallalah Mountain that I might not have minded the extra bit of security inherent in having one.

I entered the trailhead not sure if I got it, if I understood why I was doing this; two hours later in the middle of climbing up the side of a perfectly good rock outcrop while trying to puzzle out where the trail went, I figured it out. Years ago, when I started workouts, I did it because I envisioned a life in which my body was not my limiting factor. I got on the machines and I ran not because I had a goal, but because I'd lived so long without them that I was willing to do whatever it took to get myself to a place where I could make choices.

[the only safe place to shoot on this slope]

I climbed those little mountains because they were there, and I wanted to prove to myself that all this work I've put in over these past two years hasn't been just an exercise in mental toughness.

It wasn't.

Realistically, I shouldn't have started here, on this trail, on this section; it was too much too soon and I wouldn't have had it any other way, because I don't have to wait and wonder if I can handle "the tough stuff."

As several of my friends will undoubtedly tell me, I've always been able to handle it. I just had to see it for myself.

Looks like I'll be wanting to price some equipment. I think I'm going to need it.

["I have to go where?]

[Full photoset is available on flickr.]

I've been trying to put it into words and have thrown every attempt away; the entry I quickly entitled 'braille night' has been rewritten at least seven times, with every attempt causing me more frustration and leaving me nothing but silence here.

Writer's block, I suppose.
Privacy, perhaps.

In the time I've been struggling to make that entry come to pass, my fingernails have grown out from clipped-short to long again. I've become a fan of Michael Bublé's music. I've dug in the flowerbeds and learned to make baked ziti and contemplated [repeatedly] my plans for my next trip to Atlanta.

* * * * *

What's had me flummoxed? A good thing. A friendship, singular, despite the fact that three people are involved. The evil triumverate of Asai, Patrick, and Amy is rapidly growing into Three Stooges territory; the photos bear this out. It's been bewildering to me. My personality, coupled with the way I live my life, mean that friendships are gradual, incremental things. People appear in my life. I show interest. In time, the Polaroid develops from blank white to pastel wash to vivid color.

Most of the time, this takes years. This took just a few months. I've enjoyed it, but it's left me unsettled. I think I still believe, deep down, that a friendship quickly obtained will vanish just as quickly.

I'm still not that good at letting people past my public persona. I've spent quite some time this morning thinking about it, and I've realized that in the past few years, this website has changed; what was once a much more internal monologue has become part of most of my friends' perception of me. I've lapsed back from writing here to writing emails again.

But, still—there they are, over there, two-thirds of personal introspection over Taco Bell takeout; three pints of Ben & Jerry's while sprawled out on comforters, alternately watching British television or having conversations that are far too private to whisper into random ears.

But, still—here I am, the last third of the friendship; the one whose appearance in Atlanta provokes late-night planning.

The Stooges shall make an appearance at the John Digweed show in Atlanta in two weeks' time.

Here's hoping we'll remember to stash ice cream in the freezer for when we're back.

* * * * *

In the meantime, planning continues. I've begun training for our Memorial Day weekend hike. I recognize that nothing fully prepares you for hiking and backpacking except getting out there and just doing it, but in the meantime I can get my cardio fitness back up to snuff and strengthen as many muscles as possible.

I fear being the hold-up; the newbie whose lack of skill or conditioning is what holds the group back. You'd be amazed at how much weightlifting that little fear can inspire.

I have two months, and a swath of books from the library. I'll figure out the rest.