Adirondack Peeks Summer 2024

Less Food, More Ibuprofen: One Woman’s Quest to Keep Hiking Dorothee Benz, #7178 “D ay 1: We started at 9 a.m. and got to the Mc Martin lean-to at 2-something. Our legs are awesome,” our trail log said. “Our joints, not so much.”

We started running low on ibuprofen by day five. “Count it out. Bring enough,” our log scolded in a “note to future selves.” What we weren’t low on was food. While my metabolism had tanked 20 percent with menopause, I somehow thought that change only applied to city life. I couldn’t really imagine anything other than a ravenous appetite in the backcountry, but my body—again—insist ed on acting its age. On our last night, Carol and I sat in the lean-to writing up our MVP awards as we always did at the end of a trip. The overall MVP award went to duct tape, “by a landslide. Nothing else keeps bandages on in wet boots.” Next was the “wish you were here award.” It went to the hiking poles we had left in Manhattan. “Nominated by The Knees.” On the ride home, I was worried. It wasn’t the pain, or even the wounded pride. It was the prospect of my backpacking days being finite. Sitting on a summit that I’ve labored hours to reach with the world spread out below me . . . watching water cascading over a chaos of rocks and roots down the side of a mountain . . . scrambling up a steep trail look ing for the next handhold . . . listening to the wind sweep ing across a ridge—these are things that feed my soul like nothing else can. The idea that I might not be able to continue to experience them into my 60s, 70s, and, I had hoped, my 80s, was alarming. I resolved to do something about it. Thus began the ongoing quest to find self-care practices that would, could—hopefully—extend my hiking years. When I got back to New York City after the trip in 2016, I signed up for an introductory rate at the yoga stu dio downstairs from my office. In the first “basics” class, the instructor asked if anyone had any injuries or limita tions. I raised my hand and started enumerating: rotator cuff pain, especially on my right side, the incomplete re covery from hand surgery a year earlier, my hips . . . I was barely halfway through the list when I real ized that everyone else had stopped talking and was staring at me. They all looked like they were 12. It was not a good omen. I modified the poses as necessary, but at one point the instructor said, “invite your shoulder to reach toward the wall,” and she might as well have said, “invite your shoulder to dislocate.” I tried a few other classes as well as returning to the basics class several more times. There was one class when I just started to cry, it hurt so much. My joints were already too compromised for yoga, I realized. It was a really depressing thought. I took up tai chi instead. Resolving to Do Something about It

It was August 2016, and we were at the begin ning of what would be a humbling backpack in the Adiron dacks High Peaks. One that brought me face to face with my mortality, albeit in a rather banal way. My wife Carol was working on becoming a 46er, and I was working on my second round of the 46. On day two, we hiked up from Lake Colden to Algonquin; at 5,115 feet, it is the second tallest mountain in the ’Dacks and one with unsurpassed views. “The Algonquin trail is awesome,” our trail log raved. “Quintessential Adiron dacks—insane scramble, lots of steep, stunning scenery, wild. The views from the upper portions and summit are amazing.” But, then, the next sentence: “I don’t really trust my knees, especially the right one, which hurts more be cause it doesn’t have technological assistance”—i.e., a brace like the left one has had since a partial ACL tear many years earlier. By day four, the complaints about our joints had turned philosophical: “Backpacking is an extended exer cise in pain management,” our log reflected. “Today’s hike featured plenty, especially for Carol’s hips on the uphills.” We scrapped a plan to hike over to our favorite campsite in Panther Gorge and called it an early day at the Feldspar lean-to instead. My 50s, it began to dawn on me sitting by the brook that night watching the mosquitos flit across the water, were not going to be a more glorious version of my 40s as I had imagined. My 40s were a decade in which I was in the best shape of my life, gleefully outlasting my 20-something (male) gym partner, with no end in sight. My muscles might think I could train my way to eternal youth, but it was now clear that my joints were not going to lie about their age. My Body Insisted on Acting Its Age

Carol on Iroquois in 2016

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