Kinsler: We don't feel as old as we may look

Note: The following is a refurbished column that began but was abandoned maybe four years ago. Factory warranties apply.

I don’t think Mother Nature appreciates it as much as we do, but Natalie and I have been celebrating the pandemic with walks through our county parks. Now, the trouble with that is that you’re really not allowed to take a walk through the park anymore. No, no: first you’re expected to complete preliminary exercises at the Amish-crafted, Inquisition-designed stretching station. They likely promote a healthy vegan diet, too, but I didn’t pick up that brochure.

Only then are you allowed to hit the trail, which in the case of ‘Rhododendron Cove’ on Pump Station Road looks like a gentle, forested hill instead of a terrifying series of rock-rimmed switchbacks zig-zagging 340 feet straight up through the slippery narrow fissures of a sandstone mountain split by Nature’s fury.

The Babes in the Woods struggled on and up, meeting occasional groups of attractive, fit young people on their way down, young people who looked upon us with doubt and concern as we trudged onward.

Like most men, I easily forget that I look old. That’s why polite young people hold doors open for me—I always look for the handicapped individual for whom the door is really being held and there’s nobody: this is for you, grandpa.

It was fun at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, too. My beloved demanded that we go there, again, presumably because she’s nuts. Elevation, 8,000 feet. By contrast, there’s Lancaster: elevation 800 feet. So when we breathed we enjoyed approximately 40% oxygen and 60% outer space.

There is a short beginner’s hiking trail that extends maybe 300 feet along the canyon rim, and we would have done well to observe the experienced hikers coming back. These were vigorous couples with khaki hiking hats and walking staffs that look like ski poles. But we failed to notice that Mr and Mrs Life Begins at Sixty were staggering and gasping, so we just trotted equipment-less down the trail, paying little attention to the slope.

Atmospheric oxygen is a woefully under-appreciated commodity. At the North Rim, you take a deep breath and suddenly realize why a helium balloon won’t float there. The next breath is worse than the first, and that’s when we noticed that we had to climb a substantial hill to proceed. I was personally in favor of stopping and establishing an astronaut training facility on the spot, but Natalie, who gets more O2 because she’s short, urged us on.

The Royal Nepalese Government requires Himalayan mountaineers to take bottles of supplementary oxygen along lest they themselves become mountain litter. It’s also why I’m leaving Peru off our trip itinerary.

Peru notwithstanding, the two of us are in remarkably good health, and our joint sense of adventure has survived. We were on our way home from visiting friends a few weeks ago when we were passed by a determined-looking Greyhound bus. “Uh, oh,” we said simultaneously, because the last time that happened we found ourselves on a bus to Las Vegas six weeks later. It was a great adventure, and we’re apparently up for another. We’ll let you know.

Mark Kinsler kinsler33@gmail.com, eventually comes home to our smallish house in Lancaster with Natalie. It is peaceful, and there are cats.