Attention! The fifth annual meeting of the Yorktown Youth Hostel Club is now in order, 45 years after the fourth. It’s an experiment. Take a couple dozen nerds who went on what was essentially an extended mass date in high school, scatter them across the map, wait a very long time, and then throw them into the same pot again and see what cooks. We all showed up with plenty of seasoning and some of our bits were crispy, but boy howdy if we don’t still make a tasty stew.
|Photo by Bill Priedhorsky|
It was an outdoor club. No surprise our current lodging is festooned with vintage bicycles and canoes. We’re on a lake in the Adirondacks, laughing so hard we’ve humbled the loons. We’re all in our sixties, so we know that life spools out like a bolt of fabric, unrolling faster and faster as the bolt gets smaller. But it turns out you can pause for a moment and fold that fabric. You can line up 2015 with 1968, say, and that pleat will hold, at least for a little while. Then all you need to do is hold both ends and shake it to unload all the intervening years, the careers, the triumphs, the losses. For hours we stood and nattered like magpies on espresso, and continued over dinner on the deck, but the next day it was time to get moving. The Hostel Club is not a group of fanny-sitters. We decided to climb Crane Mountain.
|Photo by Bill Priedhorsky|
We should have been ready for anything. We had an emergency room physician, and if he couldn’t handle anything that came up, we had a backup hospice nurse and, um, a coroner. We had an electrician and a poet and a real estate agent and a geologist and a psychologist and an occupational therapist and a marine biologist and a physicist and a mathematician, and figured we could cover any contingency shy of voting Republican (or, as it happens, working the microwave). So off we went.
Crane Mountain is a 3200-foot pile of boulders that the state of New York gets a civic kick out of calling a “foot trail.” There was the occasional trail marker, but we could navigate just as well by keeping an eye out for the fingernails of earlier hikers embedded in the rock. We had three stents and six heart bypasses among us, unevenly distributed, plus an assortment of herniated disks and grumpy joints, some hiking poles of which much was demanded, and an unreasonably sunny attitude. We were going to bag that
summit and collect all that scenery if it killed us, which was no longer just an expression. Maybe our short-term memory isn’t as good as it was, but we’re pretty sure the head counts at the beginning and end of the hike matched up.
|Is he dead?|
In the ‘Sixties, we had fun and movement and laughter and all of it thrummed with an undercurrent of youthful hormones that most of us weren’t sure how to get into gear, and now we were having all of it without the hormones, I think. We’re not that much different. The former smart-asses are now merely smart. Teenage psychic pain has been replaced with the mature version: pain pain. But we’re cool with that. There might be pizza and ice cream tonight, and we have a whole week, and there’s probably more stuff to shake out of the fabric.
|Photo by Tom Boothe|
Couldn't improve on that account. Rock on, so to speak.
Have you ever noticed how hard it is to get pictures of "steepness?" Oh, we rocked on!
Excellent leg muscles there, Murr. All that mailpersoning wasn't for naught. And that's a kickass view too.
And one of the joys of being with people of a certain age is that no one made fun of my sandals-with-socks! Which, I am told, is a terrible fashion faux-pas outside of the Pacific Northwest.
It's so liberating to finally reach that age where we don't give a flying fig and just wear what we feel comfiest in.
And not hold our tummy muscles in. I know. Discarding the trivial.
I am exhausted just looking at this. Joints aching, but I would have loved to drag along anyway.
"Drag" is the appropriate word…"clamber, tug, plotz, gasp like a beached fish…"
🙂 Well, that's wonderful.
It WAS wonderful!
Long ago, when I worked for your cousin, I did most of my hiking in the western half of the Adirondacks. I am impressed that you all made it to the top. Makes me wonder if I still can.
I was a little worried we weren't all going to make it to the bottom, actually. At least, in one piece.
Old Farts never fade away.
Beautifully written, Murr!!
Well, you had all the right professions along on the outing!
We realized at one point that we had NO lawyers.
That may have been a blessing…
I guess I'm glad I DIDN'T come. Not only am I a "fanny sitter", but I'm a lawyer. I'm sure I would have enjoyed the company and reminiscences, though..
Murr, THANK YOU for putting all this up. You are a WONDERFUL writer.
pat (lamkin) lange
Hi! You'd have fit in just fine. That was more a vainglorious statement than anything else–I'm a Class A fanny-sitter, myself.
Life always seems way too short when you're having fun like that, doesn't it? Glad you're having a good time!
Life is at once too short and just right, depending. So far.
Weren't there naked people on top of that rock years ago??
Um….I didn't see any…imprints…
Impressive and inspiring.
The magic of the internet at work!
Looks like a really fun day!
I don't know a single person from 45 years ago. no one that isn't family I mean.
Dave has lots of friends from first grade on–mine mostly go back to high school at the earliest.
Wonderful. Looks like you all got a good start on life and are holding up pretty well.
I'd say "holding up pretty well" is worth aspiring to.
So much fun to read – recently reconnected with a few friends who I now refer to as "The West Hi Gals" and we get together a few times a year. Anytime you can go back in time (so to speak) and reconnect and it all clicks again and those intervening years disappear is a wonderful, magical time! After an hour or so, the age lines disappear and I can see those teenage girls peeking through!
After all – 60 is the new 40!
I think sixty is better than forty, except for the having less time to live part.
Thank you, your article is very good
viagra asli usa