So many ways to rough it in the wilderness - Marin Independent Journal

Frankie Frost/Marin Independent Journal

Barry Tompkins

I am a city kid. If it wasn’t concrete, I didn’t walk on it. The great outdoors was Playland-at-the-Beach. I walked purely to get from point A to point B — and only if I couldn’t get a ride.

My parents never even owned a pair of sneakers, let alone hiking boots. The wilderness to them was watching “Bonanza.” My dad once offered that if he wanted to see snow, he’d just open the freezer. Trekking to my dad was driving to the liquor store.

The closest I ever came to the beauty of nature when I was growing up was owning a Pendleton shirt. I never joined the Boy Scouts, so the only way I know how to start a fire is to turn a knob to broil. I didn’t camp until I joined the Army, and I never did it again thereafter for fear of friendly fire.

Any kind of fishing that wasn’t off a municipal pier was out for me, and don’t even mention hunting. When I first heard that people actually hunt with a bow and arrow, I couldn’t get over the thought that you could fell a wild boar with those little suction cups at the arrow’s end.

I never aspired to be Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett. I didn’t even watch “The Lone Ranger.” I was a city kid.

And then, I married a mountain goat.

My wife is obsessed. She not only can hike forever, she hikes at a pace that were it an Olympic sport, she’d be in medal contention. She would beat Bigfoot two out of three.

This past weekend, she and a group of friends completed what has become an annual event for them. Hike a 17-mile stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail that begins at Sugar Bowl and ends at Squaw Valley. Given a choice, she would have walked to Tahoe from home, but I prevailed.

I generally go with her on this yearly junket, where I am assigned a particular role. I am the designated driver — dropping the intrepid group off at the start point. I am the cook, preparing a carb-loaded dinner the night before. And I order (and pay for) the beers upon their arrival some eight hours later.

In the meantime, I think back on my own many hours of enjoyment of the great outdoors at Playland-at-the-Beach. As I recall, I never even got a blister.

I referred to my wife as a mountain goat. This hike is so serious the mountain goats are asking for a ride back. At the end of the eight-hour trek, the health monitor on my wife’s watch said, “You’re on your own, I quit,” after 48,000 steps and 124 floors.

Personally, I wouldn’t do this even if there were a BarcaLounger and a martini at the halfway point. But, I decided — even at this late date in my life — that I should at least give nature a chance.

So, before coming home, my wife and I went up to Lassen National Park, where I had agreed to a little junket into the wild. She was quick to eliminate one problem when she told me I probably wouldn’t be able to do this in loafers.

I’m proud to tell you that I made a successful break from my roots. The mountain goat and I completed a three-mile hike that was the outdoorsman’s equivalent of the bunny hill. Toddlers were racing past us and I overcame the stare of a squirrel that obviously knew I didn’t belong there. Even the posted threat of angry river otters was not enough to deter this intrepid outdoorsman.

So, now, I get it. Nature’s pretty nice. Next year when the Pacific Crest Trail 17-miler comes along, I’m a part of it. I’m cooking an even better lasagna for carb-load night.

I didn’t like hiking that much.

Barry Tompkins is a longtime sports broadcaster who lives in Marin. Contact him at barrytompkins1@gmail.com

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