It is sunny Saturday afternoon in early December. It is cold and the effects of a recent ice storm have left the mountain tops sparkling and twinkling, the verglas reflecting the abundant light. Experience tells me that the moderate breeze outside will be moving the ice-encased branches in a jangly rhythm, the sound not unlike hundreds of holiday ornaments clinking together. Friends of mine are headed up into the mountains this day, intent on crossing a trail no doubt more skating rink than actual terra firma. It is an annual event and I have been along for the ride in several of the previous years. This year, however, an antipathy about the event has settled in and as the weather reports for the coming weekend indicate severely dropping temperatures my motivation plunges similarly. The plans for the hike have been coming together for a couple of months, since autumn’s first chill. It starts this way each year: An e-mail between conspirators mentions casually that the full moon in December falls on the 12th—this year I think I was the instigator—and soon the idea combusts and before you know it a date is set and roll call is being taken for the trek. I signed on eagerly, spurred on by the group discussion about previous adventures and the upcoming one, afraid too, of feeling left out when the postmortem e-mails go around. As the day draws closer, however, I notice an ambiguity about the trek and hope that it will pass.

Truthfully, I go through an adventure funk about this time every year. The long season of training for endurance events has stopped. The holidays arrive. Cold weather—while often a different palette on which to paint your adventures—also makes me want to hibernate next to the wood stove with a good book. I can usually tell when this has happened because my pants start to not fit. Honestly, it is a bit distressing to think that I will have to hike, bike, run, swim and paddle for the rest of my life just to fit into my favorite jeans, but such are the insults of an aging body and a slower metabolism. The first few times the funk happened, I freaked, I’ll admit it. What if I’ve lost the adventure mojo, I thought? I didn’t tell any of my adventuring friends either, afraid that they might think I was not as committed as they were any longer. And then one day, in a confessional moment during a cold, late season run that neither my running partner nor I seemed to be enjoying, I admitted my shortcoming to him. To my relief, my partner shared my seasonal ennui—and I understood at that moment how support groups worked. “This, too, shall pass” is a saying used in those support groups, and that was the case with my first brush with adventure malaise. The holidays came and went and one day a spark struck in my inner core and the adventure flame burst forth once again. The motivation that year was an early season event I wanted to be in shape for and combined with a long snowshoe hike, my love for adventuring was rekindled and my pants soon buttoned with ease once more.

So as the days got closer to this year’s moonlight hike and my enthusiasm for it waned, I wasn’t alarmed. I thought that when the day came, I would put my game face on and head into the mountains. Along the way, however, I made jokes to the group, coming up with silly excuses for why I might not make the hike, perhaps anxious to telegraph my conflicted state of mind. One day I claimed to have dropped a shampoo bottle on my big toe in the shower, but that I thought I’d be okay by the big day. That led to someone asking me if I was pulling their leg, to which another member of the group—picking up on my intention—replied that since my arms had fallen off I couldn’t possibly be pulling anyone’s leg. I seized on that for the next day’s excuse: with no arms, clearly I couldn’t hike. And then the ice storm hit and under cover of being prudent, I suggested that maybe postponing the trip would be a good idea. With acknowledgment of the concerns I raised, it was still nonetheless decided to carry on and I agreed. Truly, in other years, I would have reveled in those conditions but my desire to stay home and watch triathletes compete in sunny, warm Hawaii on TV—NBC was airing the Ironman that day as it turned out—was strong .

The day of the hike dawned cold and clear and I awoke feeling oddly enthusiastic. My wife and I went out for breakfast and I ate like someone who was fueling up for a long hike into cold mountains. We drove home from the restaurant, along a road that faced the crystal-capped peaks, and it suddenly felt like a good day for a long, crunchy walk with good friends. I had set some cold weather gear aside the night before, and arriving home I went about getting more of it out. I put on my base layer, a thin thermal top and pant, and gathered my mountaineering gloves from the shelf where they had been stored since last winter ended. I had all of the movements and mannerisms of someone intent on going on an adventure. And then, just as quickly as it switched on, it switched off: A personal responsibility left undone from the prior week surfaced and I had the opportunity to resolve that or go hike the frozen Catskills. That was all it took for me to hit the eject button. I drove to base camp for the trek—a house not too far from own—and broke the news to those that had assembled already. Certainly, they weren’t surprised—I had been hinting at my non-participation all week long—but I still felt like my now legitimate reason for skipping the trip wasn’t up to snuff. Another of the yearly group had withdrawn earlier in the week due to a lingering cold and still another had bagged the trek earlier that day, suffering from a similar lack of enthusiasm as mine.

The gathering before the undertaking is always a favorite part of this annual event. People arrive at the home of the host (both of the staging area and the hike itself) from places far and near, bearing bundles of gear. A yard sale of well-used winter hiking equipment could be held in his living room and a healthy sum of money would no doubt be raised. The terrific personalities who show up each year for the hike are in high spirits and it is an easy, fun and enviable scene to be a part of. Despite my lack of participation beyond this stage, it felt good to be among them—even when two of the more colorful hikers each donned a pair of more colorful thong underwear (thankfully, over their clothes) in a nod to an ongoing theme in the regular e-mail exchanges.

My legs began to twitch and it was hard to sit still while gear was strapped on and backpacks were made ready. I avoided discussion of trail conditions and what they might face, feeling that perhaps that wasn’t my place this year. Another member of the group was empathetic to my condition, for he, too, had not “felt it” a few years ago and decided to stay home; however, he told me, he had made the decision to forego the base camp gathering, knowing it would be difficult. Soon the group was ready to depart and I then watched them leave in cars packed tight with well clad hikers and full backpacks. I drove home and set to doing what was required of me that day, at a computer in front of a window that faced the mountains my friends were headed into.

As the afternoon light faded into dusk and then dark, I calculated where I thought their progress might have them. And, early on, I was e-mailed photos of the group at the trailhead just before they began—a shot that in years past included me—by one of the good souls who ferried the hikers to the starting point of their epic. I viewed the pictures with a mixture of affection, admiration and envy—an interesting combination—and remembered that the year between this annual event always seems to go quickly and better planning and gratitude for the extraordinary nature of the people involved, and for the endeavor undertaken by them, could have me out there among them before I know it.

C-C-C-Changes
So we are building a nursery for the new addition to the family. The baby’s room will be in the room formerly known as the “gear room”.

And while I am thrilled about the new arrival, I am also a little overwhelmed with finding a place for all this stuff. I have to find a place for climbing harnesses and helmets, for backpacks and sleeping bags. I have headlamps and gaiters, sunglasses and swim goggles. I have cycling clothes and running clothes and triathlon clothes, summer wear and winter gear, as well as a wetsuit and ski wear to re-locate. And the footwear! In fact, the gear room used to be called the shoe room because of all the different types of adventure footwear I had/have; I was (and to a degree, still am) the Imelda Marcos of adventure shoes.

I’ve been accumulating this stuff for years now. Rarely does good equipment go bad, so the pile just grows year after year. Certainly, some things are occasionally used up and worn down or out, but the truth is, I am loath to throw or give away anything I might need in the future. Who knows, for instance, when I’ll need to outfit a small expedition and I’d hate not to have that old thing-a-ma-jig just when I need it.

In fact, I have a friend who wears a 25 year old polypro pullover whenever we go winter running. It is striped and threadbare, but he swears by it. He only breaks it out a half a dozen times a year or so, but I just know he’d feel a loss if he still didn’t have the shirt in his arsenal. Another friend runs in tights that first saw the winter roads sometime in the 1980s and he is completely okay with the bright fuschia color, even if we aren’t.

I am, however, trying to thin the herd as I go through my collection of bladders for hydration packs and the many pairs of gloves and hats—each for a different purpose—telling myself along the way that what you don’t use you don’t really need. But the pile of expendables is really quite small at this point. At least, I’ve managed to reduce the collection of race and event t-shirts I’ve collected over the years, donating a bunch of them to a local family shelter. In fact, I think I saw a resident of the place walking down the street in a triathlon shirt from one of my previous races; who knows, maybe he will be inspired by the graphic on the shirt to take up the sport.

Winter Gear Spotlight
Despite my earlier confession, I still plan to take advantage of the next two or three months of winter adventure; one of the coolest pieces of gear I plan to use (despite, as also earlier noted , a desire to lessen the load) is something called the Kahtoola MICROSpike—their spelling, not ours. Kahtoola is a company that bills its products as “snow travel systems,” and the MICROSpike can certainly fill that bill. Made from a heavy duty rubber webbing that cinches around your shoe or boot, the MICROSpikes have “stainless steel spikes connected to a dynamic flex-chain with a tough elastomer shoe harness.” And boy, do they work. In fact, while I didn’t go on the winter night hike adventure, my pair of MICROSpikes did; the value of them was too great to not be used by someone on that trek and so I eagerly lent them out.

Kahtoola MICROSpikes cost a bit more than other pull-on traction products like YakTrax or the Petzel Spiky Plus, but they are capable of doing more too. With the MICROSpike, you’ll be able to negotiate some seriously slippery ground, making getting outside and having some adventure a sure thing this winter.

Locally, Rock and Snow in New Paltz carries the Kahtoola MICROSpike. Call them at 845 255 1311 or vist them online at www.RockAndSnow.com.

You can see the entire line of Kathoola products at www.Kahtoola.com.