I drove fast in the canyon, leaning into the curves, glimpsing the river down below, seeing the rain clouds move in from the horizon. On reaching the trailhead, I ditched the car, grabbed my gear and heading across the river and into the thicket. I picked the steepest trail that I could find and attacked it. Within five minutes, my legs were throbbing and my lungs were on fire. I pushed onward, upward and, eventually, was rewarded with fantastic view of the canyon.
On the plateau, I lost the trail but managed to pick up a game trail and follow it for a while. Ten minutes later, when I was precariously perched on the seriously steep mountain side, I realized that I was not and had never been a mountain goat capable of comfortably walking on such stupidly sloped mountains. Carefully, I picked my way along the hillside for the next thirty minutes, pausing often, shooting some pics, and scouting my route. Eventually, I worked my way around the canyon and back to some landmarks that I'd noted that were on a proper footpath. Then, with quivering legs, I headed back to the car. I left the parking lot as the rain moved in and drove home tired and happy.
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