Monthly Archives: January 2014

Perhaps the most practical place to hike (especially in winter!) is right out your front door.  Tom and I frequently take a quick walk around our little neighborhood and find that there is a comfort in the familiar day to day sights and sounds of Gibsonia (or, as our kids prefer, Gibsomnia).  I know we watch too much Sherlock but it’s amazing what you notice if you look.  If there are newspapers in the driveway and the Christmas decorations are still up, they’re probably on a cruise.  Old carpet on the curb means they got new flooring, a strange car means a son or daughter has moved back home, …oh, the drama!  And we love to conjure up nicknames for the people we see.  Stick Man, the Bag People (avid poop scoopers), Mustafa (an older Irish looking man who always walks 10 paces ahead of his wife), and the Hollywood Squares.  I shudder to think…do they have a nickname for us?  Probably Barbie and Ken.

We were out to dinner with some true Urban Hikers the other night.  They eagerly shared their passion for exploring the city on foot.  And Pittsburgh hiking is not for the faint of heart.  Even though the downtown area of Pittsburgh is truly a “walking city,” let’s face it, we’ve got a hill problem here.  In the one mile from Panther Hollow to the Peterson Event Center, you’ve got a nosebleed.  Undaunted, this couple shares an intimacy with the city they love.  They choose the road less travelled, walking the back streets and neighborhood routes.  While most of us are crawling along on the parkway, they embrace the people, the Churches, ethnic enclaves, corner markets, ruins of Pittsburgh’s past, cobblestone, trolley tracks, spectacular views, and hundreds of bridges.  We listened in while they hatched a cunning plan for their next 10 miler:  From North Oakland, across the HotMetalBridge, down the River Trail to Homestead, cross the bridge, up Brownshill, through Squirrel Hill to SchenleyPark and home again.  You could see how excited they were about the plan.  I’m exhausted just thinking about it.  “But will you stop to see the eagles?” says Tom.  On the River Trail between Hot Metal and Sandcastle, there is an eagles nest. Last Spring, Mr. and Mrs. Bald Eagle hatched the first chick to be born in Pittsburgh in 200 years.  We’ve visited often on foot and on bikes. It’s a relatively short walk 2-3 miles from the Hot Metal Bridge along the Monongahela River.   Bring your binoculars and plan on the Hofbrauhaus for dinner.

It’s strange that the same sparkly boughs of holly that decked my halls to fabricate a magical Christmas miracle have now become an annoying assortment of glitter infested clutter.  I had a terrific headache and was completely pooped from a stressful week.   I did not feel like hiking.  I did not feel like doing anything. And we really needed to take down all those Christmas decorations. 

Doesn’t it seem like we resist some things just when we need them most?  Tom (aka Mr. Wonderful) has some sort of hormone-detecting superpower.  He knows when I need to get out there.  We took a very short drive to one of our go-to trails near North Park.  Pittsburgh was having one of those global warming periods (they generally last anywhere from 7 to 10 hours) and it was a balmy 49 degrees.  After the sudden snow melt and 3 inches of rain, the trail/river was a royal sloppy mess but it felt good to have my boots in the mud and smell the earth again.  The stream that feeds the lake was too high to cross so we walked around it and took a steeper trail.   I was moving a bit slower than usual (slugs were passing me shaking their heads), but I kept moving.  We heard and then saw a pileated woodpecker.  (They are the big black and white ones with the bright red pointy heads…think Woody the Woodpecker if you are over 40.)  They are much easier to see when all the leaves are down.  A couple of deer stopped in the trail to look at us. (“Look dear, humans!”)  Tom rides his mountain bike here often so he knows which water pumps still work (the water that pumps up out of the ground is freezing cold—so refreshing!) and he knows where the nicer overlooks are.  An hour later, we walked back to the car.  Nothing remarkable…just a nice little break from the worries of the day and all the post Christmas blahs.  Sometimes that is all marriage is…just finding ways to say, “You are more important than my headache or my Christmas clutter, or anything else in this world.”

The first time was Heritage Point.  It was not a super challenging hike but by the time we got back to the hotel, we were clearly hooked and stoked to find a new trail to conquer.  The State Park Ranger, Ken, told us about another hike that takes to you a remote Patrol Cabin at the top of the mountain behind our hotel.  “Very strenuous, very steep,” says Ken.   We’re all in.  Ken gave us a pretty stern warning.  “It’s a tricky hike, not well traveled.  Take your time.  Be careful.”

Careful Shmareful.  We were young and strong and good looking.  We could climb Everest if we could afford a Sherpa.  I had a cute matching outfit on that I bought especially for my honeymoon, matching socks and little white sneakers too.  Tom was rocking a pair of cut offs.  We were so ready.

The beginning of the hike takes you on a trail that parallels the BlueRiver.  Beautiful swift water over the billions of grey-blue rocks.  Cool, breezy, fragrant.  We are loving this.  Then we make a hard left and begin what I will call the “assent.”   This stretch is not so beautiful.  It’s a rugged, ugly, and neglected road bed.  There is evidence that this was a popular place to leave your trash back in the 70’s.   It is riddled with fresh mountain spring water.  This is a romantic phrase for mud.  My adorable sneakers are no longer white.  My socks now match the car door from the brown Maverick abandoned beside the “trail.”  But the promise of a Patrol Cabin at the top of a sunny mountain beckons us “come!”  Make it to the top!  Be a part of the mountain!

We continue upward.  The sun comes out.  We march even higher into the steaming humid mountain air.  My honeymoon outfit is soaked with sweat.  (Tom wasn’t supposed to see me sweat until after the first full year of marriage.)  There are black flies the size of tator tots.  There are swarms of gnats that have an unmistakable affinity for eyeballs.  Mosquitoes pour out of the “mountain springs.”

Did Tom and Amy bring any water for the trip? A map? Bug spray?  Sunglasses?  A cell phone?  A camera?  No way, we are two crazy kids punch drunk with love…in the 80s!   We don’t need no stinking bug spray!

A few clouds form and block the sun.  We notice the sudden drop in temperature.  It must be only 117 degrees now.  There’s a bit of wind too.  We hike ever onward.  The Patrol Cabin awaits.  It’s windier now and getting dark.  My mascara has made it down to my chin.  I’m sore, thirsty and miserable.  Tom is swatting flies like a 5 year old with a piñata but staying ever positive.  We can make it!

But we don’t.

Tom at the Patrol Cabin in 2010. We finally made it.

Ranger Ken was right.  A few items in a backpack would have eased the journey.  A map would have told us that we had only a short walk ahead of us that leveled off to meadow at the base of the Patrol Cabin.  But only years of experience reveal this kind of wisdom.  Marriage is a long hot journey. But there is a map. There are perils, irritations, and trash piles. Prepare well.  Don’t quit too soon.  Keep climbing. You want to finish at the top.