There were lots of other hikers to keep me company up the mountain. I noticed their international character from the languages I heard; I had not anticipated their presence due to the park’s obscurity compared to Yosemite or Yellowstone. I also noticed their almost universally fit appearance, which was to be expected given the requirements of the trail. I made it to the top in an hour and forty-five minutes, which was a little less than the usual time recommended for the trip. It was nice to know that my exercise over the last couple of months had accomplished something. I took a selfie on the summit, enjoyed the view for a while, then headed back down. The return hike was quicker—about 90 minutes—but much harder on me than going up due to the incessant strain on my thighs and shins as I pounded down the slope. It was only one-thirty when I arrived at my car, but my legs were done for the day and much of the next. Mission accomplished.
On other occasions I hiked some of the park’s easier trails, including the one that led to Bumpass Hell, a large collection of hot springs and mud pots named after a nineteenth-century miner who burned his leg badly enough there for it to be amputated. There I visited with a French couple who had moved to California. I mentioned to them that I actually lived nearby but had not been to the park much in the past. “It’s like living in Paris and never going to the Eiffel Tower,” they said. “That’s how it was for us.”
I had thought that perhaps Americans didn’t care as much for nature, but their observation was probably closer to the truth. It’s hard to appreciate what you have in your own back yard.
