AS I WAS SAYING

Mountain Men

by Alan Williamson

When asked why he risked life and limb to climb Mt. Everest, master mountaineer George Mallory famously replied “Because it is there.” After 25 years in relentlessly flat South Florida, I can relate. Every so often I feel the need to heed the call of the wild, leave the Florida flatlands behind, and set out to far-off places where I can hike up the face of a mighty, fear-inspiring mountain. My not-so-quotable reason for doing it? “Because it is elsewhere.”

      Now, before you get carried away with visions of lung-gasping, boulder-clinging adventures in the Alps, Andes or Rockies, let me make one thing mountain river clear. Having grown up in northeast New Jersey about 40 miles north of New York City, my idea of hiking up a mountain involves meandering along a well-marked trail to a modest peak of no more than 1,000 feet, pausing to enjoy the view and say something appreciative like “nice” or “sweet,” and heading back down in time for dinner.

      My hiking home turf is a region known as the New Jersey Highlands, a subset of mountains and ridges in the Appalachian chain that extends south from Connecticut into Pennsylvania. West Milford, the rural Jersey town I grew up in, sits in the heart of the Highlands and is home to over 100 miles of marked hiking trails, nearly 40 lakes, four state parks, and my old boyhood home in the woods that my father likes to call “The Ponderosa.”

      Much to his dismay, my dad also lives in Florida these days, in a house in the suburbs he likes to call “The Penitentiary.” For an outdoorsman like him, living in Port St. Lucie, Florida is akin to a captured white Bengal tiger who, in an ill-conceived attempt at domestication, is trained to try and blend in at the bingo hall and avoid going into a thrill-of-the-kill feeding frenzy at the early bird buffet.

      To provide a socially acceptable outlet for his untamed tendencies, my mother and he have worked out a system where he is tagged and released into the backcountry of northern New Jersey every autumn where he spends the remainder of the year roaming the secluded trails and forests of wild West Milford.

      This year, before autumn’s festive charms gave way to winter’s sadistic tortures, I decided to renew my mountain man credentials and join him. How could I go wrong? It was mid-October, a time in northern New Jersey known for mild, sun-splashed days and cool, crisp nights. A time where nature’s Crayola box of primary colors erupts into joyful celebration, causing grown men to stop on the side of the road and tear up in worshipful wonder. A time when the smell of smoke from nearby chimneys signals the end of summer as townsfolk sustain the flickering warmth with a cozy fire and well-worn sweater.

      Except that, this year, winter decided to hold a sneak preview.

      “I hear it’s supposed to get down in the 30s tonight,” I relayed to my father as we made our way into the woods and onto the white dot trail. “It doesn’t feel cold to me,” he asserted, as a contradictory droplet of snot dangled from his nose. “As long as you’re dressed for it, it’s not a big deal.”

      I thought of the winter coat, gloves and hat with built-in ear flaps that my uncle had lent me, kicking myself for leaving them in the rental car back at the house.

      “Only a la-la would be cold in this kind of weather,” I bellowed, jamming my hands deep into the pockets of my flimsy denim jacket in search of undiscovered warmth.

      “It’s not a good idea to walk in the woods with your hands in your pockets like that,” my father cautioned. “If you trip, you’ll need to throw your hands out in front of you so you don’t hit the ground face first.”

      “Good point. You ready to take a break and have some trail mix?” I proposed. “We’ve been out here a couple hours by now.”

      “We’re only 30 feet from the house,” dad pointed out, nodding toward my rented Ford Focus visible in the driveway through the trees.

        With my father eyeing me warily, we followed the white dot trail deeper into the woods, occasionally using our hand-carved walking sticks like a third leg to maintain balance over wet leaves and loose stones.

      “I like having the walking stick in case we run into any black bear,” dad mentioned casually. This made me shiver for other reasons.

      “Have you seen any black bear out here?”

      “Not this trip. But they’re out here. The mounds of bear scat are everywhere.”

      “I always heard that you’re supposed to lie down and play dead if you cross paths with a bear,” I ventured, seeking confirmation.

      “That’s for grizzlies,” dad clarified. “Black bear will just bend down and start digging into their happy meal, grateful for the quiet treat. Of course, if you hit them in the face just right with your walking stick, you might be able to daze them long enough to get away.”

      “What if you miss?”

      “Then your best shot is to poke yourself in the face with the walking stick and hope the bear thinks you’re crazy.”

      With thoughts of keeping a hungry 300-pound bear at bay with a walking stick and a wild gleam in my eye, my dad and I pushed on to the final phase of our climb, navigating a steep, boulder-strewn path to emerge out on the open rocks for a scenic bird’s eye view of the serenely impressive Wanaque Reservoir.

      Surveying the dramatic beauty below us, the strain of the cold weather and rugged climb caught up to me, and instead of saying the customary “Wow, what a view,” I said . . .  

  “Wow, it’s so easy to lose all track of time out here in the wilderness. Like, I could have sworn I hopped on a plane in mid-October, but now here I am, freezing cold, and it feels like mid-December. I love Thanksgiving, but I guess I blew right by it this year walking around for months in the woods. I’d offer you some trail mix dad, but it’s all gone. Every last raisin. I wish I had rationed it better, but mountain men gotta eat, right? Still not sure about the black bear survival strategy. And what about deer, coyotes, bobcats, wild turkey, low-flying eagles? I heard something about porcupines being out here and being very territorial. I’d hate to piss off a porcupine, but it’s really not practical to spend a four-hour hike constantly thinking ‘watch out for porcupines,’ ‘watch out for porcupines,’ ‘steer clear of the porcupines.’ Dad? Dad?!?”

Alan Williamson is an award-winning writer with 27 years in the field of true fiction (advertising). A practical man who knows that writing for a living is risky going, he has taken steps to pursue a second, more stable career as a leggy super model. Alan can be reached at .