Title: As Long As I Carry My Own Pack Type: Humorous - Community, hiking, Date Published: 2006-09-21 Can be purchased in Volume 1

     I came to the realization recently that I am no longer in my prime. The unusual part of this was that it didn't even occur at a class reunion. It happened on Labor Day. That is the day that my children think we should "labor" by hiking up Table Mountain, which overlooks the Tetons. I suggested to them that Labor Day is the day to honor women who have had children, but they didn't buy it.
     This particular day was our final chance of the summer to be one with nature, away from the masses of humanity, just like the other 50,000 people who were there. We started out cheerfully singing, "...odalay, odaloe, with a knapsack on my back". The singing soon gave way to the somewhat more important task of breathing. Within a short time, my brain was asking, "Are we there yet?" and I looked back to see that we had covered almost 100 yards.
     I have long since decided that, if I really want to take a 12-mile hike, I would walk from one end of a Super Wal-Mart to the other. Perhaps the "Super Wal-Mart Hike" could be a scout merit badge. Wal-Marts have drinking fountains, air-conditioning, and level floors. And, even though you have to face irate shoppers, you don't have to face mosquitoes the size of jumbo jets. Besides, I never shop the day after Thanksgiving, so the only irate shoppers I encounter are the ones from whose cart I accidentally take something, thinking it is the clearance basket.
     The fact still remains that it has become an annual family tradition to hike Table Mountain. I have ten children and the youngest is still three. I don't take them until they are twelve, so I still have at least nine years of this insanity to endure. This dawned on me about two miles into the hike, when muscles, long dormant and atrophied, roared out of their slumber, attacking me. I wondered why my wife couldn't have had all ten children at the same time and saved me this grief.
     Finally, reaching the last 100 yards and crawling onto the top, I looked at my feet. My blisters had blisters. In fact, I think the blisters on my feet had a five-generation family reunion.
     After catching our breath, we pulled out loaves of bread and peanut butter. We had forgotten the jam. No one complained. No one cared. We were too tired to care. When we finished, there were still three loaves left. Since I was hauling the lunch, I coerced some college students into taking the leftovers.
     A half hour after we arrived on top, my children were ready to start the trek down. My muscles had gone back to sleep and, as I stood up, they attacked with more venom than before. I looked down from that height, realizing I had no choice this time; turning back was not an option. That was when the over-the-hill moment hit me. My son noticed that I was walking like a duck and offered to carry my pack.
     When they were small, I carried their packs and almost all of the food and water. This year, even though I had to admit I was tired, I did make it down off of the mountain carrying my pack and my pride the whole way.
     Wearily, we crawled into our van, and my children vowed they would never make that trip again. Though that was seemingly good news, my hopes didn't last long. Just like a woman in labor who swears she will never have another baby, the memory of the pain soon passed for my children and they are already planning next year's hike.
     So, if you are up on the mountain on Labor Day, watch for me. I'll be there - at least as long as I can still carry my own pack.