Call, Bawl or Crawl?

Call, Bawl or Crawl?

My former hiking partner wore glasses so thick I never figured out the color of his eyes in the many long years of our association. But he never failed to notice a babe in skimpy attire passing, or a sign for free samples at the grocery.

Klutz is too generous a term for him. He broke nearly everything he touched: kitchen appliances, lamps, garden tools, lawn chairs, bicycles and plumbing fixtures.

As the years went by he elected to grow a ponderous gut. Ultimately the added tonnage resulted in high blood pressure and a funny fluctuation in his heart and a dependence on beta blocker medication to set things straight. So my hiking bud was overweight and medicated all because he couldn’t pass the dessert bar without hauling back enough sweets to fill a Chevy Suburban to brimming.

Yet for many seasons I trusted this bloated oaf who saw as well as Mr. Magoo (except for the most mouth-watering views) to lead me safely on hikes throughout remote areas of the Santa Monica Mountains. I guess I was either lucky or one of those fools some hiking deity likes to smile upon.

It’s not always that way, of course. In a discussion with Bob Heagy, Jr., a National Park Service ranger who patrols a very wide swath of the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area, he stressed that novice hikers in particular need to learn "to listen to their bodies" while experienced hikers need to know their limits.

Listening to one’s body might entail asking oneself: Am I too out of shape to tackle a strenuous route? Is this constant thirst a sign of dehydration or too many salty pretzels consumed? Was that a hot flash or am I growing overheated on this sun-baked trail? What’s a leg cramp feel like exactly? Is this light-headedness a sign of anything to worry about? Do I always hear my heart pounding in my ears when I climb uphill? Is that Guinness World’s Record blister mushrooming on my ankle going to hamper me much? Do I know whether I’m allergic to bee stings and/or plant pollen? Am I letting some macho thing, a desire to keep up with my more fit and nimble buddies, make me push myself beyond my capabilities?

Surprisingly, for those of the male persuasion, the latter query is especially significant, according to Heagy. (Girls would never be as silly as that.)

Ranger Darcy McDonald told me of receiving while out on patrol a "rescue" call from a guy "lost in the wilderness" above Peter Strauss Ranch in rural Agoura, a tame little park my ancient crone of a great-grandmother could tackle blindfolded—and using her walker. Identifying himself as a local man, he told McDonald he had his camera phone and would send her pictures of the terrain he was lost in.

"Right, like I just have time to get back to a computer and start downloading pictures," the ranger said in exasperation. She put the SAR team on standby alert, called to the guy when she reached the park and made him walk down following her voice when he responded. The helicopter got to stay in its hangar that day.

"We are so lucky to be in these mountains," she said. "Other areas are really dangerous. Not here."

McDonald, who has worked on Santa Cruz Island and elsewhere, suggested cell-phone-bearing recreationists who get in trouble in the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area call the National Park Service dispatch directly (and not 9-1-1) at (661) 723-2704.

I do worry about this phone-in-the-wilderness business, how dependent it may make some recreationists who might be unaware of the difference (and the potential risk to rescuers) between a genuine life-threatening situation and something as frivolous as the desire to get home in time to see that evening’s episode of "The Simpsons."

So I take a break in the middle of a hellacious hike sometimes, pondering whether carrying a phone might bring me a swift end to the torture. Fog’s rolled in, obscuring all the gorgeous views. There’s ticks crawling everywhere. It’s turned raw and cold. My boot laces keep untying and tripping me up. I’m plagued by wedgies in my hiking shorts. My backpack’s zipper jammed and all the contents keep spilling out. The dog’s carrying on like a juvenile delinquent. Was that just a passing jet’s strobe lights or an alien ship scanning for potential abductees? It’s going to be really dark soon and there’s this narrow slippery ledge yet to negotiate, then an endless uphill climb to a wind-blasted summit.

Cue the late Warren Zevon’s Poor poor pitiful me!

Then I reflect a moment. While I may gripe that the Great Bestower of Things shortchanged me in a lot of areas, I am grateful to have two strong legs . . . and all the determination one small whining wimp can muster to finish what I started.

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