The climber is nearing the summit, steps shortening, breaths deepening, legs burning, vision narrowing. Ever so close to the destination, he can almost reach out and touch it! This final quarter mile has been challenging, however, with too-many-to-count rest breaks. He thinks back to his youth, a time when he muttered those familiar, oft-spoken words from the back seat of the car during an all-day trip, “Are we there yet?”

Sir Edmund Hillary scaling Everest? No, Marcus Armstrong nearing the top of Mt. Charleston’s two-mile Trail Canyon Trail, a trail which actually serves as the feeder to a much longer hike along the North Loop Trail for the varsity hikers on the mountain.

For me, the JV hiker, this Trail Canyon Trail is actually the entire journey. If the North Loop Trail is a trip to the grocery story, the Trail Canyon Trail is the driveway. Instead of continuing farther up the North Loop Trail, my “there yet” is a saddle where this trail ends and is basically just renamed without much of a distinct intersection (sorta like how Southern California street signs are the only indicator among the never-ending sea of houses, office buildings, factories, and shopping centers that the motorist has actually crossed into a new city).

The Trail Canyon Trail (isn’t that name a bit redundant?) is a fairly steep, constant grade so I am feeling pretty good about myself having just tackled its 1,574 vertical climb to the saddle. Of course, lost in all of this self-adoration is that I have conveniently forgotten about the group of young kids, the folks with dogs, and even a few senior-senior citizens, who have all just blown past me during one of my brief, yet frequent, rest stops. Once that gentleman with the walker is breathing down my neck, I know my rest stops are officially behind me. No way this guy is getting around me. Suck it up Armstrong!

I climbed this same trail a year ago with relative ease, and here I am again, even a few pounds lighter, expecting this to be (cliche warning) a walk in the park. Instead, it is anything but that. Everything hurts: feet, muscles, pride.

My love for hiking began about a decade ago when I first moved from California to the Carson Valley with its abundance of amazing trails. While living there, I frequently hiked the Tahoe Rim Trail, replete with its beautiful pine trees and stunning views of Lake Tahoe; the Fay-Luther Trail System, where I had a close encounter with a rattling rattlesnake (this means I unknowingly got to close); and the relatively new Genoa Trail System, which generally ended with the obligatory stop in the Genoa Bar and Saloon (the oldest bar in Nevada) for a cold post-hike refreshment.

Living in Las Vegas for the past six years, I have hiked every one of Red Rock Canyon’s trails (many more than once), exchanging pine trees for sage and bitterbrush. I tend to wander around in the desert (like the Israelites?) only in the non-summer months, however. During the summer, I turn my attention to Mt. Charleston and its 75 degrees to escape the scorching 100-plus degree heat in Las Vegas.

Hiking is my escape, my respite, my union with nature, time with God (and on this day, a few hundred other Las Vegans trying to escape the 110 degree forecast down in the valley). The pandemic has also driven people out to nature to get away from Big Brother (not the popular reality show on CBS) and the Mask Patrol (not a judgment on masks, but rather an observation that people are feeling constrained).

Once I arrive at the ridge of the TCT (a “saddle” for those continuing up the North Loop Trail; the “summit,” the “destination,” the “end of the trail” for me. Can I beat this point to death?), I sit down with a magazine, a book and a flask of rye whiskey for just a couple swigs…my reward. The reading break is amazing as the sun peaks through the thinning evergreens, the breeze singing as it races over the ridge and through the trees.

When it is time to head back (either that or take a nap), I pull out my trekking poles to minimize the likely chance of a face-plant heading downhill (they have paid for themselves many times over the years). I make pretty good time, although it is still rough on the knees, despite the hint of whiskey in my blood. I am not sure how much attention I am giving to the beautiful scenery around me, however. Today, the goal has changed from quintessential connection with nature to “don’t break anything” and “can’t get back to the car quickly enough.”

I meet some backpackers on the trail who are going to spend a night or two in the wilderness. I am jealous as I haven’t backpacked in seven years and my gear has been calling me. The painful lactic acid I am already feeling on this day is quickly redirecting my fantasy. Suddenly, bocce ball is sounding like a much more rewarding hobby.

Ugh, this hurts! Maybe I will never backpack again? Maybe I will stop hiking altogether?

Who am I kidding? I know from experience (#addiction) that by next weekend, my body will be (80%?) recovered and I will be itching to hike once again. What is that urban dictionary definition of insanity?