Culture Shock; Heat Shock

When we booked our room at the Two Rivers a few weeks ago, I was told we got the last room available, as the night we were arriving was the date of the "big annual music festival" in nearby Trout Creek. We planned to get to the Two Rivers late Saturday afternoon, and go to the festival at night. Although we didn't know what kind of music was featured, we figured it would be an interesting way to spend the evening.

We actually got in a bit later than we expected, as we discovered that morning in our motel in St. Ignace that Kristine had left about half her luggage at home. The trip to Kenton was interrupted by stops at several Family Dollar or Shopko stores trying to replace the clothes she was missing. Once we had unwound a bit, made dinner, and got ready to head out, it was about 9:00. And it was at this point that certain of my assumptions about culture came into startling relief. We arrived at the festival site around 9:15...to find the event over. Booths that sold crafts and promoted local organizations, as well as the beer and food tents, were being taken down. The sounds of the last of three performers had long ago died away.

When I hear the words "music festival," I think of an event that goes all day and late into the night, where diverse individuals gradually blend into one swaying, sweating tribe. Police officers are present to prevent riots, not to shake hands and show off their new cruiser. Lots of people are sitting on quilts, but no one is raffling them off. Things are a bit different at Trout Creek's Pond Fest. Not that I was expecting a Pondapalooza, but I wasn't expecting a country fair, either. I still think I would have appreciated what was there, though--if I had arrived on time. If the lady at the motel had described it as a "town festival," I think I even would have known what to expect.

The first hike we took on Sunday afternoon demonstrated my limitations much more harshly. One of the reasons we like visiting the UP is that the temperature is generally mild enough to hike through the middle of the day. In the southwest last year, we ventured out only early and late, like the rest of the desert creatures. Turns out we should have kept to that plan up north, too, since an uncharacteristic heat wave struck the area the whole time we were there--temperatures every day reached the upper 80s or low 90s, accompanied by extreme humidity. To cut to the chase, as we began the return leg of our hike last Sunday, I started feeling acutely anxious and irritated. After a long climb out of a river basin, I had to apply a great deal of concentration and effort to keep my legs moving, even though they didn't feel too tired. When we stopped for a moment for Kristine to adjust the camera case around her waist, I was hyperventilating, and when we began walking again I became so dizzy I almost fell. I didn't know what was wrong but I knew something was. As soon as I found a suitable log, I sat down, and stayed there for quite a while, sipping water slowly and munching a Cliff bar.

As you've probably guessed by now, I had heat exhaustion. This has never happened to me before, but then again I've never hiked in really rough terrain in humid 92˚ weather wearing long pants before (shorts are not a good idea there given the tick population). And, as Kristine was quick to remind me, I'm not as young as I used to be. We made it back to the car, walking slowing and stopping for rest a couple of times. I ended up drinking most of Kristine's water as well as mine. She didn't seem to have any problem, though heat generally bothers me a lot more than it does her. Even riding home, I wasn't completely out of the woods, so to speak--when we stopped at supermarket (30 miles out of our way home) to buy some gatorade and potato chips to aid my recovery, I became nauseous and bolted out of the checkout line to vomit in the parking lot (that IGA must have been so happy to get my business...). But the Gatorade and chips stayed down, and after an evening of convalescence, I was more or less mended.

Mended physically, at any rate. The emotional shock stayed with me. Among my family and friends, I have a reputation as a tireless hiker. Always the first to the top of a peak, ending up way out in front while walking at a casual pace, always wanting to go farther and stay out longer. Those days may be over, and I feel like I'm no longer the person I was, a person I very much liked being. Not that I have to be the fastest or strongest, but I feel like I have to "take it easy," to worry about what might happen if I simply follow my impulses. I'm used to being cautious about steep cliffs, thunderstorms, bears, and other external hazards of the outdoors. I've never had to be cautious about myself or my capabilities. I'm still not sure how to manage the transition.

I don't even know that I have to, yet. My fluid intake before hiking that day consisted of one can of club soda and four cups of coffee, my favorite diuretic. Had I taken in more water, I would have been fine, I'm absolutely certain.