Hiking in Three inch Heels

Can I just admit that when I got dressed for our trip to the lake on Labor day I maybe might have intentionally worn three inch heeled sandals because I knew there was a hiking trail? Not REALLY, but subconsciously . . . maybe? I mean, I knew the hike would likely be proposed. I knew that I wasn't feeling up to it. I knew where my running shoes were. But the thought of going up that flight of stairs to retrieve said shoes  really was asking too much. So I debated with myself for about two seconds, and then wore the more conveniently located sandals. And did have the thought that oh well, I don't particularly want to go hiking anyway.

So we get there, and everyone jumps out of the car and wants to go hiking right away–before it gets hot, right? Come on, just come with us, you can turn around if it gets too hard for the little ones. Oh wait, the little ones are going to stay with Aunt Keri. But come on, it's not very far. I roll my eyes, but I go, because after all, it's usually me coaxing people into hiking with me.

I came home and researched that hike–some websites say the hike is two or three miles long, depending on which route you take and rises 525 feet. Some say 800 feet. The sign at the park said 800 feet and one mile. I'm going with the on-site figure. Whichever it was, Meg spit from over the edge. We never heard it land . . .

Insane in three inch heels, at any rate. Chunky heels, but heels, and sandals no less.  I made Jaeger carry my shoes up the steepest parts in his pack. He was, after all, earning a merit badge for this. Not me. Marty, at one point, gave me some ski poles which were surprisingly useful–has the effect of turning you into a quadruped. I'm sure I cut an amusing figure–I may be hiking in heels folks, but I've got ski poles!

I made it to the top, but for the first fifteen minutes I seriously thought I was going to turn inside out just trying to breathe. Be it five or eight hundred, I'm pretty sure we climbed 80 percent of that going almost straight up, while the final 20 percent was in more gradual switchbacks.  I couldn't believe how steep it was on the way down. I'm not sore today at all, which is a little disappointing, seeing how I thought I was getting this great workout, judging from the fact that I felt like I was breathing through a coffee straw, and coughing up what seriously tasted like blood–no joke folks, I am ridiculously out of shape. So why not stiff and sore? Because it's all about my cardio being out of shape, not my muscles, which can apparently lift me 800 feet in forty minutes without showing any strain the next day. Maybe I'll add pictures. Meg and Jaeger both had little phone cameras. I left mine at the van, thank goodness.


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