I realized today that my prior posting was from the hospital’s recovery section, and some of you might conclude that I’m still there. To the contrary, I apparently offended a sufficient number of the medical people by my previous postings that they unanimously voted me off their island. So I’ve been home for two weeks now; surprisingly, Janet hasn’t yet voted me off this island.
It has now been three weeks since the surgery, and I’m slowly working my way back to some degree of fitness. I’ve been walking three miles a day for the past week – not all at once, but rather one mile three times a day. That’s a long way from the mileage which will be required for the End to End walk, but over the next few months I hope to not only extend the distances, but to actually walk while thinking of things other than the stresses on my body.
It’ll still be another 3 or 4 weeks before I can lift anything, or even open a window. Until my sternum heals completely, I’m not able to carry even a light day pack. As a result, real hiking is still out of the question, and my walks are limited to strolls around the neighborhood. But still, I’m getting out and don’t have to put up with daytime TV.
As you may have noticed, I have updated my blog’s introduction to reflect the new date planned for next year’s walk. Because I will be starting earlier next year than I had planned for this year, I’m planning to walk from south to north. The route is the same – only the direction is different.
Finally, I want to thank all of you whose emails and cards have meant so much over the summer. It hasn’t been an easy time, but as so many of you have pointed out, it’s only been a minor detour.
© 2010 Ken Klug
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Recovery Day 5 -- Random Thoughts
A long-distance walker’s thoughts dwell mainly on satisfying primal needs like shelter, food, and water. If weather or trail conditions become challenging, they may assume prominence, as will the condition of your feet, legs and other body parts if any of them malfunction. For obvious reasons, my heart has recently supplanted thoughts of other needs while hiking.
My heart valve has been repaired, so I’m no longer thinking about that. I’m out of intensive care and now in a recovery room where the hospital staff is still attending to all of my primal needs. As a result, I have far too much time for random thoughts. I’m like a community activist on a grant.
One of my random thoughts is how medical people are a lot like legal people. Being a highly-trained lawyer, I know a lot about legal people, and the past few weeks have taught me a quite a bit about medical people. That makes me fully qualified to compare them. It also makes me fully qualified to run for political office. I understand that in Britain the phrase is “stand for election” rather than “run for office.” In view of the tubes still protruding from several bodily orifices, I would do much better standing in Britain than running in the U.S. But I digress.
Some legal people and medical people may be insulted by the comparison, but I mean no disrespect. My point is that both professions customarily utilize multi-syllabicated terminology in lieu of ordinary words. Why do medical people speak of laceration when they mean “cut,” hematoma when they mean “bruise,” catheterize when they mean “shove a tube up,” and hemorrhoidal discomfort when they mean “pain in the butt”?
Legal people use big words too—not because we understand them, but because we charge by the hour, and the longer it takes us to say something, the more we get paid. Medical people aren’t paid by the hour, but rather by how many of those little boxes they can check on the billing slip. The random thought occurs to me that medical people use unintelligible words and coded invoices so nobody will know what disgusting procedure they actually performed.
Regardless of their motivation, the utilization of cryptic and bombastic language by the legal and medical communities is an unfortunate convention to which I long ago avowed never to subscribe. With that in mind, I call upon the medical community to cease its word-mongering obfuscation, and provide the same degree of verbal transparency as practiced by other noble professions. Politicians, for example. I realize that there is a fine line between being a community activist and being a hemorrhoidal discomfort, so issuing this challenge involves some degree of personal risk. After all, the other side is armed with needles. And tubes.
I think I’ll keep having random thoughts until I actually get out of the hospital and back on the trails. I suspect the medical people are as eager for that to happen as I am.
© 2010 Ken Klug
My heart valve has been repaired, so I’m no longer thinking about that. I’m out of intensive care and now in a recovery room where the hospital staff is still attending to all of my primal needs. As a result, I have far too much time for random thoughts. I’m like a community activist on a grant.
One of my random thoughts is how medical people are a lot like legal people. Being a highly-trained lawyer, I know a lot about legal people, and the past few weeks have taught me a quite a bit about medical people. That makes me fully qualified to compare them. It also makes me fully qualified to run for political office. I understand that in Britain the phrase is “stand for election” rather than “run for office.” In view of the tubes still protruding from several bodily orifices, I would do much better standing in Britain than running in the U.S. But I digress.
Some legal people and medical people may be insulted by the comparison, but I mean no disrespect. My point is that both professions customarily utilize multi-syllabicated terminology in lieu of ordinary words. Why do medical people speak of laceration when they mean “cut,” hematoma when they mean “bruise,” catheterize when they mean “shove a tube up,” and hemorrhoidal discomfort when they mean “pain in the butt”?
Legal people use big words too—not because we understand them, but because we charge by the hour, and the longer it takes us to say something, the more we get paid. Medical people aren’t paid by the hour, but rather by how many of those little boxes they can check on the billing slip. The random thought occurs to me that medical people use unintelligible words and coded invoices so nobody will know what disgusting procedure they actually performed.
Regardless of their motivation, the utilization of cryptic and bombastic language by the legal and medical communities is an unfortunate convention to which I long ago avowed never to subscribe. With that in mind, I call upon the medical community to cease its word-mongering obfuscation, and provide the same degree of verbal transparency as practiced by other noble professions. Politicians, for example. I realize that there is a fine line between being a community activist and being a hemorrhoidal discomfort, so issuing this challenge involves some degree of personal risk. After all, the other side is armed with needles. And tubes.
I think I’ll keep having random thoughts until I actually get out of the hospital and back on the trails. I suspect the medical people are as eager for that to happen as I am.
© 2010 Ken Klug
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Surgery Update -- Heart Valve Surgery 101, Recovery day 3
My surgery was Monday, and I’m pleased to report that the surgeon was able to repair the mitral valve rather than replace it. I’ve been in intensive care since then because the medical people are continuing to watch my vital signs. I’m doing my best to keep having vital signs for them to continue monitoring.
I know that some readers are curious to know exactly what is involved with heart valve surgery, so this posting will cover the details. If you are at all squeamish, I recommend you close your browser and wait for the next posting, or at least take a mild sedative before proceeding.
The heart valve job involves four separate steps. Step One is going to sleep. Medical people always like to start with something easy, and I’ve had a lot of practice with this step, starting when I was a child. I sometimes still practice during the afternoon at my office with a law book resting on my lap. This revelation may alarm some clients who pay me by the hour, but I assure you that I bill such time at only half my standard rate. You are not allowed to proceed to Step Two until you have successfully completed Step One.
Step Two is waking up. This step is very important because otherwise the medical people may think you are dead. Now, those of you who are not as well-versed in medical procedures as I am may think this second step is easy. “After all,” you might think, “Ken has also been practicing waking up since he was a child.” But that’s where you miss the point. When I was a child, I always awoke to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and birds merrily singing outside. It was the start of a whole new day, with exciting things to explore and new discoveries to be made. Now that I’m over 60, it‘s always dark when I awake, and the most exciting discovery is that I had not wet the bed, no matter how full my bladder feels.
When you try to awake from a valve job, the first thing you notice is that tubes are protruding from every bodily orifice except your ears. “How many tubes?” you might ask. Thousands. “How can that be?” you ask, while wryly counting the number of your own bodily orifices and subtracting two. Once again you show your naivety, because you have forgotten that the first thing medical people learn in school is how to create new bodily orifices for the sole purpose of attaching tubes.
While you, the patient, are trying as hard as possible to complete Step Two so as not to be mistaken for the departed, your mind is distracted by the tubes protruding from all your old and new bodily orifices, and like any reasonable person you start to count them. You might as well be counting sheep. Except that sheep are easier to count.
The reason you can’t actually count the tubes is that, while you were engaged in Step One, the tubes became entangled. To avoid counting a tube twice, you’ve got to trace each tube from its source to its destination through a Gordian knot of tubes.
At this point, I must digress. When I was in the army, I flunked knot tying. Back then, we needed to learn how to tie knots so, among other things, we could string telephone wire between headquarters and outposts. I was so inept at stringing wire that I was the sole cause of the U.S. Army abandoning the landline telephone system and moving to satellite communications.
When I started climbing mountains, my good friend and mountain guide extraordinaire, George Dunn, co-owner of International Mountain Guides, spent untold hours trying to teach me rope management. That is the only thing George ever failed at, because whenever I get within arm’s length of a rope, it coils itself into an unrecognizable mass of spaghetti. This wad of rope has become known in the mountaineering community as the Ken Klug Coil.
Mountaineers have attempted to alleviate the difficulties resulting from the Ken Klug Coil by using different color ropes. I know that many of you always thought that mountaineers were just trying to be fashionable with all their pinks, purples and yellows, but in reality different color ropes were invented because mountaineers couldn’t rely on the Army’s satellite system to protect themselves from falls.
The medical community isn’t as creative as the mountaineering community, because all of their tubes are the same clear non-color. Perhaps medical people are able to trace each tube to its end by visually identifying the bodily fluid within each, but for us patients, that’s a disgusting task. So, with all the tubes hopelessly entangled in a Ken Klug Coil, repeated attempts to count them are in vain, and the patient will unavoidably nod off, even without a law book in his lap. Unfortunately, at this point the medical people don’t charge half rate.
The patient’s vain attempts to untangle the tubes himself are inevitably met with further entanglements until the patient becomes more restrained than Houdini. Eventually, the medical people mercifully conclude that they have had enough fun and remove some of the tubes, slowly freeing the patient so he can actually write the check to pay the bill. With the tubes removed, the patient is now fully awake, and ready to move to Step Three.
Step Three is walking. Medical people require that you walk right after surgery because it’s the only way for them to confirm that all of your body parts have been put back. “Aha,” you think, “Ken should be good at this one. After all, Ken has also been walking since childhood, and he’s got us all convinced that he actually may attempt the End to End Walk someday.” But once again you miss the point. The point is: hospital gowns that give new meaning to "Mind the gap."
No self-respecting walker would moon everyone he passes. Well, if truth be told, there was a LEJOG walker a few years ago who not only mooned everyone, but gave the Full Monty. That worked exceptionally well in liberal England, where he was given a meal and a bed each night courtesy of the local magistrate, and was then sent on his way the following morning. But upon reaching more conservative Scotland, he was given a bed for six months, thus delaying his walk. I’m not sure how liberal or conservative things are in hospital hallways, but I don’t want to risk being sentenced to a six months stay.
With a sufficient quantity of safety pins and adhesive tape, I am now braving the hallways. As you know, I had originally intended to walk 1200 miles this summer. Right now I’m happy to walk 1200 inches. It’s surprising how difficult it is, what with dragging those tubes and all. I’m told that each day I will get stronger and stronger, and that the hospital staff will push me to walk farther and farther, until eventually I can reach their collections office and pay the bill. That’s Step Four.
© 2010 Ken Klug
I know that some readers are curious to know exactly what is involved with heart valve surgery, so this posting will cover the details. If you are at all squeamish, I recommend you close your browser and wait for the next posting, or at least take a mild sedative before proceeding.
The heart valve job involves four separate steps. Step One is going to sleep. Medical people always like to start with something easy, and I’ve had a lot of practice with this step, starting when I was a child. I sometimes still practice during the afternoon at my office with a law book resting on my lap. This revelation may alarm some clients who pay me by the hour, but I assure you that I bill such time at only half my standard rate. You are not allowed to proceed to Step Two until you have successfully completed Step One.
Step Two is waking up. This step is very important because otherwise the medical people may think you are dead. Now, those of you who are not as well-versed in medical procedures as I am may think this second step is easy. “After all,” you might think, “Ken has also been practicing waking up since he was a child.” But that’s where you miss the point. When I was a child, I always awoke to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and birds merrily singing outside. It was the start of a whole new day, with exciting things to explore and new discoveries to be made. Now that I’m over 60, it‘s always dark when I awake, and the most exciting discovery is that I had not wet the bed, no matter how full my bladder feels.
When you try to awake from a valve job, the first thing you notice is that tubes are protruding from every bodily orifice except your ears. “How many tubes?” you might ask. Thousands. “How can that be?” you ask, while wryly counting the number of your own bodily orifices and subtracting two. Once again you show your naivety, because you have forgotten that the first thing medical people learn in school is how to create new bodily orifices for the sole purpose of attaching tubes.
While you, the patient, are trying as hard as possible to complete Step Two so as not to be mistaken for the departed, your mind is distracted by the tubes protruding from all your old and new bodily orifices, and like any reasonable person you start to count them. You might as well be counting sheep. Except that sheep are easier to count.
The reason you can’t actually count the tubes is that, while you were engaged in Step One, the tubes became entangled. To avoid counting a tube twice, you’ve got to trace each tube from its source to its destination through a Gordian knot of tubes.
At this point, I must digress. When I was in the army, I flunked knot tying. Back then, we needed to learn how to tie knots so, among other things, we could string telephone wire between headquarters and outposts. I was so inept at stringing wire that I was the sole cause of the U.S. Army abandoning the landline telephone system and moving to satellite communications.
When I started climbing mountains, my good friend and mountain guide extraordinaire, George Dunn, co-owner of International Mountain Guides, spent untold hours trying to teach me rope management. That is the only thing George ever failed at, because whenever I get within arm’s length of a rope, it coils itself into an unrecognizable mass of spaghetti. This wad of rope has become known in the mountaineering community as the Ken Klug Coil.
Mountaineers have attempted to alleviate the difficulties resulting from the Ken Klug Coil by using different color ropes. I know that many of you always thought that mountaineers were just trying to be fashionable with all their pinks, purples and yellows, but in reality different color ropes were invented because mountaineers couldn’t rely on the Army’s satellite system to protect themselves from falls.
The medical community isn’t as creative as the mountaineering community, because all of their tubes are the same clear non-color. Perhaps medical people are able to trace each tube to its end by visually identifying the bodily fluid within each, but for us patients, that’s a disgusting task. So, with all the tubes hopelessly entangled in a Ken Klug Coil, repeated attempts to count them are in vain, and the patient will unavoidably nod off, even without a law book in his lap. Unfortunately, at this point the medical people don’t charge half rate.
The patient’s vain attempts to untangle the tubes himself are inevitably met with further entanglements until the patient becomes more restrained than Houdini. Eventually, the medical people mercifully conclude that they have had enough fun and remove some of the tubes, slowly freeing the patient so he can actually write the check to pay the bill. With the tubes removed, the patient is now fully awake, and ready to move to Step Three.
Step Three is walking. Medical people require that you walk right after surgery because it’s the only way for them to confirm that all of your body parts have been put back. “Aha,” you think, “Ken should be good at this one. After all, Ken has also been walking since childhood, and he’s got us all convinced that he actually may attempt the End to End Walk someday.” But once again you miss the point. The point is: hospital gowns that give new meaning to "Mind the gap."
No self-respecting walker would moon everyone he passes. Well, if truth be told, there was a LEJOG walker a few years ago who not only mooned everyone, but gave the Full Monty. That worked exceptionally well in liberal England, where he was given a meal and a bed each night courtesy of the local magistrate, and was then sent on his way the following morning. But upon reaching more conservative Scotland, he was given a bed for six months, thus delaying his walk. I’m not sure how liberal or conservative things are in hospital hallways, but I don’t want to risk being sentenced to a six months stay.
With a sufficient quantity of safety pins and adhesive tape, I am now braving the hallways. As you know, I had originally intended to walk 1200 miles this summer. Right now I’m happy to walk 1200 inches. It’s surprising how difficult it is, what with dragging those tubes and all. I’m told that each day I will get stronger and stronger, and that the hospital staff will push me to walk farther and farther, until eventually I can reach their collections office and pay the bill. That’s Step Four.
© 2010 Ken Klug
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Yosemite's Four Mile Trail
With my valve job scheduled for the end of August, my thoughts naturally turned to the Yosemite trails. Yosemite National Park’s 1200 square miles are crisscrossed by 800 miles of maintained park trails. I have hiked about 600 miles of those trails, so I searched my mental inventory for a scenic trail which my heart could handle. I settled on the Four Mile Trail, which, in my opinion, mile for mile, step for step, is the best trail in the park.
Built in 1878 by James McCauley as a toll trail, the Four Mile Trail ascends 3200 feet from the Yosemite Valley floor to Glacier Point by 59 switchbacks, varying in length from 12 feet (No. 18, counting from the gate at the bottom of the trail) to about a mile (No. 7). The trail was riginally 4 miles long, but in 1923 the National Park Service realigned tt to lessen the grade, resulting in a present length of 4.6 miles. The former name remains nonetheless.
Some parts of the old Four Mile Trail can still be found, although now overgrown by nearly 100 years of vegetation. 130-year old dryrock walls, reminiscent of the dryrock walls in Britain, still line the trail’s former switchbacks. For scenery, nature and history the Four Mile Trail can’t be beat. It is my favorite trail in the park, as my car’s license plate attests.
The trail not only offers jaw-dropping views (a trait common to most Yosemite trails), but with its diverse vegetation changing both by season and elevation, the trail presents a new experience on every hike. The lower part of the trail passes though old, stately oaks interspersed with dogwood, whose lovely white flowers harbinger the coming spring, and alders, whose golden leaves in autumn glow when backlit by afternoon sunshine. A little higher, the manzanita’s delicate pink flowers in springtime upstage its polished, brick-red branches so coveted by decorators. In late summer, the manzanita’s flowers mature into bright red berries on which bears feast by the bushel. At the trail’s highest elevations, pine and cedar provide both shade and fragrance on a hot summer day. Stellar’s jays, finches, grouse, woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks and lizards are commonly seen along the trail. Less often, deer, bear and bobcat show themselves.
At Glacier Point, the Four Mile Trail connects to the Panorama Trail, which in turn connects to the John Muir Trail, providing a 16-mile loop with 4500 feet of elevation gain and loss—completing a perfect training day for Britain’s End to End Trail.
I typically hike the Four Mile Trail a dozen or more times each year, and until May, the trail always provided new and different joys. In late May, hiking the trail became less fun as I struggled to reach a point about 2/3 of the way up (2,000 feet of elevation gain), beyond which the trail was closed due to snow. In early June, I could ascend only about 500 feet before my heart stopped me in my tracks; in late June, I could barely ascend 100 feet. The Four Mile Trail had become something more to me than a joyous walk through the forest—like a miner’s canary, it provided an early warning of my failing heart valve.
Alas, I am presently unable to ascend from the valley, but my heart is strong enough to do the reverse. So, today, Janet dropped me off at Glacier Point. While she took the hour’s drive to Yosemite Valley, I visited with my good friend Ranger Dick, one of the few Yosemite rangers fortunate to reside at Glacier Point. At 9:30, I started the descent, and at the same time, Janet began ascending from the valley. As expected, we met halfway—descending the steep trail requires sure footing, and always takes as long as ascending.
As always, the Four Mile Trail was in shade, but typical California sunshine bathed the rest of the park. Temperatures in the Yosemite Valley were in the mid-80s. Yosemite’s famous waterfalls, which run full force in May and June, have faded to a trickle. By September, many of them will be dry.
© 2010 Ken Klug
Built in 1878 by James McCauley as a toll trail, the Four Mile Trail ascends 3200 feet from the Yosemite Valley floor to Glacier Point by 59 switchbacks, varying in length from 12 feet (No. 18, counting from the gate at the bottom of the trail) to about a mile (No. 7). The trail was riginally 4 miles long, but in 1923 the National Park Service realigned tt to lessen the grade, resulting in a present length of 4.6 miles. The former name remains nonetheless.
The trail not only offers jaw-dropping views (a trait common to most Yosemite trails), but with its diverse vegetation changing both by season and elevation, the trail presents a new experience on every hike. The lower part of the trail passes though old, stately oaks interspersed with dogwood, whose lovely white flowers harbinger the coming spring, and alders, whose golden leaves in autumn glow when backlit by afternoon sunshine. A little higher, the manzanita’s delicate pink flowers in springtime upstage its polished, brick-red branches so coveted by decorators. In late summer, the manzanita’s flowers mature into bright red berries on which bears feast by the bushel. At the trail’s highest elevations, pine and cedar provide both shade and fragrance on a hot summer day. Stellar’s jays, finches, grouse, woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks and lizards are commonly seen along the trail. Less often, deer, bear and bobcat show themselves.
At Glacier Point, the Four Mile Trail connects to the Panorama Trail, which in turn connects to the John Muir Trail, providing a 16-mile loop with 4500 feet of elevation gain and loss—completing a perfect training day for Britain’s End to End Trail.
I typically hike the Four Mile Trail a dozen or more times each year, and until May, the trail always provided new and different joys. In late May, hiking the trail became less fun as I struggled to reach a point about 2/3 of the way up (2,000 feet of elevation gain), beyond which the trail was closed due to snow. In early June, I could ascend only about 500 feet before my heart stopped me in my tracks; in late June, I could barely ascend 100 feet. The Four Mile Trail had become something more to me than a joyous walk through the forest—like a miner’s canary, it provided an early warning of my failing heart valve.
Alas, I am presently unable to ascend from the valley, but my heart is strong enough to do the reverse. So, today, Janet dropped me off at Glacier Point. While she took the hour’s drive to Yosemite Valley, I visited with my good friend Ranger Dick, one of the few Yosemite rangers fortunate to reside at Glacier Point. At 9:30, I started the descent, and at the same time, Janet began ascending from the valley. As expected, we met halfway—descending the steep trail requires sure footing, and always takes as long as ascending.
While not my typical Yosemite hike, getting back on the trail allowed me to clear my lungs and revitalize my spirit; or, as John Parsons might say in his Lejog Plod: yes, it was another good day.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Pt. Lobos, California
With temperatures in Yosemite Valley approaching the high-90s (35 C), and my heart not wanting to climb to the cooler elevations, I decided that hiking on the California coast would be a reasonable substitute. California is a lot like Britain, with ample coastline and mountainous interior. Except that the California mountains are higher, the sun always shines, and drivers keep to the right (i.e., correct) side of the road. Sometimes.
Pt. Lobos is a State Reserve on California’s central coast south of Monterey, not far from where the Pacific tectonic plate dives under the North American tectonic plate. As far back as I can remember, the colliding plates have been uplifting granite which was formed deep under the earth’s surface 80 million years ago, juxtaposing it with younger and shallower sedimentary formations. All the while, relentless ocean waves erode and shape the rocks into various forms, leaving numerous secluded coves, cliffs, and beaches. These conditions are unique on Earth, except for all the other places with rugged coastlines, such as the British Isles. Britain also has pubs and castles along its coast. California never needed castles, because it has no pubs worth defending.
There are eight miles of trails in the reserve, winding through thin forests of Monterey Pine and Monterey Cypress which thrive in the coastal fog, but which would wither and die in the sunny, hot savanna a mere mile or two inland. Also thriving in the fog are lizards, rabbits and deer, along with the occasional mountain lion and rattlesnake whose main job is to keep the lizards, rabbits and deer alert. I’m told that mountain lions prey only on the old and the weak, a fact which presently causes me some concern. For the first time in my hiking life, I’ve become part of the balance of nature.
Off trail excitement is provided by the most plentiful shrub in all of the reserve: the ubiquitous poison oak. It also thrives in the fog, but like most Californians, it really wants to be in the sunshine. So although the shrub is rooted in the off trail underbrush, it has an uncanny ability to extend its long, sweeping branches into the one sunny spot not overgrown by competing vegetation: the trail. Generally, its branches reach out at waist level, ready to fondle the bare arm of a passing hiker. But to keep things interesting, an exceptionally low branch occasionally strikes out at the hiker wearing shorts, or a strategically placed high branch assists in wiping the sweat from your brow.
The effects of coming into contact with poison oak are not felt immediately. Usually, an itchy red rash develops in a few hours, turning to an oozing, blistery mess that spreads over the skin in a day or two. But that’s not all bad, because focusing on the rash will invariably lead you to discover the ticks you picked up while on the trail. Poison oak is nature’s way of protecting you from Lyme disease.
After a day communing with nature at Pt. Lobos, I’m ready to face anything. My anything will be meeting with the cardiac surgeon in a few days to schedule the valve job.
© 2010 Ken Klug
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Brokenhearted
In January I was found to have a leaky heart valve. The cardiologist thought it could be treated by a few pills. That didn’t surprise me, because I had entered that decade of life where a daily regimen of pharmaceuticals becomes the norm. Despite the intake of pills, my activities have continued unabated – I work out on the stair climber or treadmill at the gym regularly, and I continued to snowshoe, hike, or cycle every weekend. I wasn’t particularly training for the End to End walk – it’s just what I do.
In late May, I was back in Yosemite for a week of hiking. It was great to be on trails that I hadn’t seen since last fall. But the trails that had previously welcomed me – indeed, had pulled me – now repelled me. I made very poor progress, even while the trails lured other hikers who streamed past me. It was as if Yosemite was jealous of my plan to trade its charms this summer for those of another. Hiking in Yosemite is not for the faint-hearted – trails are long and steep: 2,000 – 5,000 feet elevation gain for a typical day’s hike. Stretches of a thousand feet of gain per mile are not uncommon. But for the first time ever, the trails rejected my every advance. I attributed my heavy breathing to a recurrence of asthma.
I visited my doctor for a prescription to control the asthma, and he sent me back to the cardiologist, who sent me to a cardiac surgeon. I met with the surgeon yesterday, barely a week before my scheduled departure to Britain. It seems that the minor valve leak has worsened. Rather than pumping all of my oxygenated blood through my aorta for circulation to working muscles, my heart is pumping a large volume backwards through my faulty mitral valve. Although not yet at a flow to distract the BP engineers from their current project, the leak means my heart is functioning at very low efficiency.
The cardiologist said the condition will not improve on its own, but there is no present emergency. My strong heart muscle is presently capable of allowing me to lead a normal life – a normal life of shopping at the mall, watching TV, and stamp collecting. But extraordinary activities such as mountain climbing or marathon running cannot be supported by the leakage. If I were to engage in such extraordinary activities, my leaky heart would have to work extra hard to oxygenate working muscles, resulting in an elevated heart rate, ending in failure. Although I didn’t ask where he thought the End to End walk fell in the ordinary/extraordinary scale, he predicted that I had a zero chance of completing the walk under present conditions.
It appears that my choice is between dying of boredom and dying of a broken heart. Boredom can’t be fixed. But my heart’s valve can. Analyzing the problem with the usual risk/reward assessment on which I base virtually all of life’s decisions, fixing the valve sooner rather than later appears to be the right choice. The surgeon did not disagree, because he would rather repair a valve in a strong heart than a weak one, and my heart would probably atrophy if I were to start collecting stamps. Besides, his oldest child is entering college next year and he has tuition to pay.
So it is with great sadness that I must postpone my long anticipated End to End walk until next year. I know that my dashed dreams of doing the walk this summer are minor in comparison to the dashed hopes that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people experience every day, but I am broken hearted nonetheless.
What was intended to be a daily blog of my journey through Britain will temporarily be transformed into a series of periodic reports on the progress of my recovery after surgery – likely to be scheduled in a month or so. For those of you who would rather follow the reports of a JOGLER, tune in next year – same time, same place. In the meantime, I’m hoping that Yosemite will forgive my infatuations with another and welcome me back soon.
© 2010 Ken Klug
In late May, I was back in Yosemite for a week of hiking. It was great to be on trails that I hadn’t seen since last fall. But the trails that had previously welcomed me – indeed, had pulled me – now repelled me. I made very poor progress, even while the trails lured other hikers who streamed past me. It was as if Yosemite was jealous of my plan to trade its charms this summer for those of another. Hiking in Yosemite is not for the faint-hearted – trails are long and steep: 2,000 – 5,000 feet elevation gain for a typical day’s hike. Stretches of a thousand feet of gain per mile are not uncommon. But for the first time ever, the trails rejected my every advance. I attributed my heavy breathing to a recurrence of asthma.
I visited my doctor for a prescription to control the asthma, and he sent me back to the cardiologist, who sent me to a cardiac surgeon. I met with the surgeon yesterday, barely a week before my scheduled departure to Britain. It seems that the minor valve leak has worsened. Rather than pumping all of my oxygenated blood through my aorta for circulation to working muscles, my heart is pumping a large volume backwards through my faulty mitral valve. Although not yet at a flow to distract the BP engineers from their current project, the leak means my heart is functioning at very low efficiency.
The cardiologist said the condition will not improve on its own, but there is no present emergency. My strong heart muscle is presently capable of allowing me to lead a normal life – a normal life of shopping at the mall, watching TV, and stamp collecting. But extraordinary activities such as mountain climbing or marathon running cannot be supported by the leakage. If I were to engage in such extraordinary activities, my leaky heart would have to work extra hard to oxygenate working muscles, resulting in an elevated heart rate, ending in failure. Although I didn’t ask where he thought the End to End walk fell in the ordinary/extraordinary scale, he predicted that I had a zero chance of completing the walk under present conditions.
It appears that my choice is between dying of boredom and dying of a broken heart. Boredom can’t be fixed. But my heart’s valve can. Analyzing the problem with the usual risk/reward assessment on which I base virtually all of life’s decisions, fixing the valve sooner rather than later appears to be the right choice. The surgeon did not disagree, because he would rather repair a valve in a strong heart than a weak one, and my heart would probably atrophy if I were to start collecting stamps. Besides, his oldest child is entering college next year and he has tuition to pay.
So it is with great sadness that I must postpone my long anticipated End to End walk until next year. I know that my dashed dreams of doing the walk this summer are minor in comparison to the dashed hopes that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people experience every day, but I am broken hearted nonetheless.
What was intended to be a daily blog of my journey through Britain will temporarily be transformed into a series of periodic reports on the progress of my recovery after surgery – likely to be scheduled in a month or so. For those of you who would rather follow the reports of a JOGLER, tune in next year – same time, same place. In the meantime, I’m hoping that Yosemite will forgive my infatuations with another and welcome me back soon.
© 2010 Ken Klug
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Islands
The late A. Wainwright commented that he especially liked the English Coast to Coast walk because it had a definite beginning and a definite end. It was that simple explanation that made me understand why I enjoy walking across islands. In the Sierra Nevada, I’m never quite satisfied. No matter where I am, no matter how spectacular the scenery, there always comes a time when I must stop and turn around. I must retreat. I must deny myself the opportunity to explore further. If only I could see over the next ridge…. And the one beyond that. There’s no satisfaction in turning back.
Ah, but there is magical satisfaction in walking across islands. I start with my toes in the ocean, turn 180˚ and walk until my toes touch water again. There is a sense of accomplishment. No retreat. And since I’m a walker and not a sailor, I’ve gone as far as I can possibly go. There’s nothing left to explore.
But what am I exploring? I could see much the same scenery through a vehicle windshield. Not totally the same, mind you, because legs can travel to places where tires cannot. But sometimes I walk along the same paths that vehicles follow. So, it’s not the scenery that I’m exploring.
It’s the people. You can’t meet people when moving along inside a metal cocoon. Motorcyclists know that. Motorcyclists waving to one another seems universal – a fleeting moment of contact with a fellow traveler not normally experienced from a car. But it’s still a fleeting moment.
Walkers have time to chat. Meet a fellow walker on the trail, and a simple greeting as often as not turns into a 5-minute conversation. Sometimes longer. And for the long-distance walker, the conversational opportunities multiply with folks met in pubs, B&Bs, or campgrounds. When we walk we explore not only the land under our feet, but the people we meet.
The solo walker is an island in the sea; isolated, but not lonely. Like islands everywhere, we are constantly swept by waves – waves which, grain by grain, deposit experiences and expand our personal shores. And as we explore geographic islands, we discover more about the islands we are ourselves.
Ah, but there is magical satisfaction in walking across islands. I start with my toes in the ocean, turn 180˚ and walk until my toes touch water again. There is a sense of accomplishment. No retreat. And since I’m a walker and not a sailor, I’ve gone as far as I can possibly go. There’s nothing left to explore.
But what am I exploring? I could see much the same scenery through a vehicle windshield. Not totally the same, mind you, because legs can travel to places where tires cannot. But sometimes I walk along the same paths that vehicles follow. So, it’s not the scenery that I’m exploring.
It’s the people. You can’t meet people when moving along inside a metal cocoon. Motorcyclists know that. Motorcyclists waving to one another seems universal – a fleeting moment of contact with a fellow traveler not normally experienced from a car. But it’s still a fleeting moment.
Walkers have time to chat. Meet a fellow walker on the trail, and a simple greeting as often as not turns into a 5-minute conversation. Sometimes longer. And for the long-distance walker, the conversational opportunities multiply with folks met in pubs, B&Bs, or campgrounds. When we walk we explore not only the land under our feet, but the people we meet.
The solo walker is an island in the sea; isolated, but not lonely. Like islands everywhere, we are constantly swept by waves – waves which, grain by grain, deposit experiences and expand our personal shores. And as we explore geographic islands, we discover more about the islands we are ourselves.
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