Has Our Hiking Tradition Gone Too Far?
Did you know that folks in Utah Valley eat more ice cream per capita than any other region of the country? (Don't google that--because it might not be technically true, but for the sake of this article, it sounds about right, no?)
Based on that likely statistic, you’d think that any tradition of outdoor exercise in the area would be a good thing. Sometimes a particular hike, though—like the climbing of Mt. Timpanogos every year by people of radically varying ability—becomes too popular for its own good.
This mania got started back in 1912 when BYU’s athletic director inaugurated the “Timp Hike”—an annual, community-wide excursion meant to promote healthy living, an appreciation of nature, and probably a bit of chaste, open-aired speed dating given the college connection. The rituals surrounding the event were weirdly epic: a pre-hike pageant attended by thousands; made-up, romantic myths (one about a tragic Native American princess that feels awkward today); and boy scout-style badges awarded to chronic climbers. And then came the surreal spectacle of the hike itself: 1000 people trudging together in an endless line to the summit.
By the late 1960s when there were close to 3000 hikers on each ascent, the plant life surrounding the trail became anemic and discouraged. And should we even broach the subject of where that many people went to the potty? Let’s just say that the mountain goats on the back side of Timp had to continually check their hooves after that particular weekend each year.
By the time I moved to Utah Valley in 1999, the Forest Service had wisely put the kibosh on this grand tradition. Nonetheless, “hiking Timp” remained a rite of passage in most local families.
The first time I hiked the mountain in 2001, I made the mistake of going the day after I’d severely pulled several leg muscles while playing soccer. I could barely lift my legs after the first mile and had to adopt a grimacing, floppy-legged, thump-drag technique like a chubby Frankenstein. Children cried and dogs barked in panic as I approached. I guess the muscles connecting your legs to your torso are critical in completing a 14-mile hike with an elevation gain of 4,580 feet.
Years later, while ascending with extended family members, I had to help an older female relative. An athlete in her youth and now in her 60s, she was unable to make it up the final switchbacks. Through trial and error, we discovered that the only way I could propel her forward and upward was to get behind her and plant my palms directly into what we can euphemistically call her “upper thighs.” We didn't care about the looks we got from other hikers; we just wanted to get her flippin’ rear end to the top.
The first time I took my children on this hike, they were still young enough to idolize their dad as an athletic guy. That adulation met an abrupt end when two wiry fellows in their late 70s jogged past me on the final stretch at the top.
Later, while I lay prone and depleted at the summit, my kids peppered those energetic codgers with admiring questions about what it was like to be an ultra-marathon runner. For years afterward, my youngest son would randomly dent my ego by saying, “Hey dad, do you remember that one time when those two old guys passed you so easily on Mt. Timpanogos? That was funny, huh?” Ha.
I once saw the collapse of a friend’s marriage while hiking up Timp. Granted, this couple had some issues, but a perfect storm of stressors pushed their relationship over the edge during the ascent: the wife suffering two rolled ankles in the boulders fields as her spouse impatiently plodded ahead; the husband running out of water (even though he had been chided by his wife to bring tons more); and a loud argument at the summit over a trivia game I’d introduced in a failed attempt to change the mood. Even the local potguts (ground squirrels) looked away in embarrassment.
After wising up a bit, I avoided Mt. Timpanogos until one Saturday evening in 2008 when my 17-year-old daughter called me on her cellphone in a panic, saying that she and her boyfriend needed help getting down the mountain.
They had set out that morning on a whim, but because of youthful naivete, they got blisters, ran out of water, and the boyfriend's fear of heights resulted in a debillitating panic attack near the top.
Exhausted and irrational, they also tried to slide down the craggy ice fields which resulted in shredded shorts and seriously injured, uh... “upper thighs.”
These normally cheerful and confident kids finally ended up tip-toeing dejectedly into the darkened trailhead parking lot at 10 pm. Quietly whimpering, the boyfriend was wearing only a dirty t-shirt, Vans sneakers and torn whitey-tighties—not exactly the image of heroic and healthful hiking imagined by that BYU athletic director in 1912.
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