A Hike up Rattlesnake Hill

A minor adventure

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

Not long ago, as summer slid into fall, I sprawled on a massive flat stone high above a sun-sparkled river, watching a bald eagle soar silently above me. It was magic, majestic, and possibly dangerous. The sheer drop was just feet from my boots and the trek to the top was littered with peril. That’s what the sign said.

This makes me sound adventurous, a traveler with stories, but that’s fiction. The story is true — I was there — but how I got there is a tale of angst and bad ankles. I wanted to see the view, to be in that high flown place between earth and sky, communing with nature. I wanted to exercise my vegetating, pandemic body in the service of that vision, and feel a sense of accomplishment. I did not, however, want to face nightmares. Vipers, bears, and vertigo. There’s a price for everything, I suppose.

I was following others, as I am inclined to do.

I went to the Catskills with old friends from the city, for a weekend of wine-soaked chatter about years gone by and the miserable state of the world. We fished and ate great food. There was a fog-shrouded midnight bridge walk that made me feel like an untethered teen again. We visited the eel guy, a prickly kook deep in the woods. His brew of smoked fish, xenophobia, conservation, and misogyny is jarring. The smoked trout was delicious…