"We missed the downhill trail, now what?" asked Zia when we finally realized our 6-mile ridge run at Sherwood Lake had already gone at least 8-miles.
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The run had been confounding from the start when I misinterpreted his call for a short run before the summer solstice picnic with our spouses. Envisioning a shady four miler on the cool hardwood forest trail around the lake, I had neglected to pack food or water. He offered to share so I assented to his diversion up a steep switchback connector to the upper ridge trail. There we ambled through brambles and scrambled over boulders in the midday heat of the highest sun of the year, briefly stopping for occasional sips from his water bottle, nibbles on his trail mix stash, or gorges on low bush blueberries. It turned out we weren't the only ones who had discovered the ripe berries.
Trudging along the rocky trail, we were startled by a blur of dark movement just ahead. Two smaller smudges scrambled through the underbrush to our right. In that life-or-death instant, we both called upon all we had ever learned about bears. We froze until all movement stopped. We crept slowly backward as a big black snout poked up into the air. We moved slowly to stand side-by-side. We spread our arms to enlarge our appearance. We were ready to roar but, instead of charging, the big sow ran toward her startled cubs. They watched her gallop past and then waddled up a semi-fallen log. The thrashing down the ridge soon faded so we tiptoeing past the dark puffballs, their frightened whines just audible over a little breeze. Acting on our collective knowledge of bear encounters had allowed this one to end as a most amazing one.
I was hoping for a similar result for my second go round at department chairmanship at the West Virginia School of Osteopathic Medicine. Previously done in by the three bears of a controlling supervisor, contrary faculty, and absentee staff, I could now see ways to get past them unscathed.
The ridge trail started sloping down as we recounted the bear and my administrative encounters. After awhile our legs got heavier again as the path switched back to uphill. Stopping to finish off the water, we soon realized that our good turn on the hilltop had been followed, like so much of life, by a wrong one on the way down.
Trudging along the rocky trail, we were startled by a blur of dark movement just ahead. Two smaller smudges scrambled through the underbrush to our right. In that life-or-death instant, we both called upon all we had ever learned about bears. We froze until all movement stopped. We crept slowly backward as a big black snout poked up into the air. We moved slowly to stand side-by-side. We spread our arms to enlarge our appearance. We were ready to roar but, instead of charging, the big sow ran toward her startled cubs. They watched her gallop past and then waddled up a semi-fallen log. The thrashing down the ridge soon faded so we tiptoeing past the dark puffballs, their frightened whines just audible over a little breeze. Acting on our collective knowledge of bear encounters had allowed this one to end as a most amazing one.
I was hoping for a similar result for my second go round at department chairmanship at the West Virginia School of Osteopathic Medicine. Previously done in by the three bears of a controlling supervisor, contrary faculty, and absentee staff, I could now see ways to get past them unscathed.
The ridge trail started sloping down as we recounted the bear and my administrative encounters. After awhile our legs got heavier again as the path switched back to uphill. Stopping to finish off the water, we soon realized that our good turn on the hilltop had been followed, like so much of life, by a wrong one on the way down.
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"It's all the way around for a fifteen miler or backtrack for twelve" I groaned. "Either way, it's going to be a dry run."
Sure enough, we'd missed the downhill junction a couple miles back. At first the trail down was cool and easy, winding through stands of mountain laurel along a bubbling stream. Then our feet got waterlogged from criss-crossing the creek. Soon our legs became heavy with fatigue and dehydration, and there were still three miles to go.
It was tempting to walk, but somehow I was able to shift complete focus to each footfall, stringing steps together by silently chanting Ta-ra-humar-a. If they can run a hundred miles in the dry Mexican hills, I can do a half marathon in the West Virginia rainforest. And so I did.
Sure enough, we'd missed the downhill junction a couple miles back. At first the trail down was cool and easy, winding through stands of mountain laurel along a bubbling stream. Then our feet got waterlogged from criss-crossing the creek. Soon our legs became heavy with fatigue and dehydration, and there were still three miles to go.
It was tempting to walk, but somehow I was able to shift complete focus to each footfall, stringing steps together by silently chanting Ta-ra-humar-a. If they can run a hundred miles in the dry Mexican hills, I can do a half marathon in the West Virginia rainforest. And so I did.
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