Dartmouth students are really overzealous about warm weather. Like, I get that you're excited that the sun's out. But 40 degrees is not shorts weather. And it's rude that you're making me feel bad about wearing a fleece. Because unless you're secretly a werewolf from Forks, I know you're f*cking cold. So stop playing frisbee and put on some closed-toe shoes.
Okay, maybe I'm being a bit rude. But I had an experience recently that left me so lost in the world of climate change that I'm feeling a little bitter. Let me explain.
So it's Saturday. It's the first objectively warm day of senior Spring. Obviously, I want to go for a hike. (The "obviously" is due to my desperate attempt to check off everything on the "101 Things To Do Before Graduating" poster. It's not because I'm outdoorsy in any way.) My friend suggests hiking to the fire tower and, after carefully checking that it's an item on the list, I decide that it sounds like a lovely idea.
"Do we have to wear hiking boots?" one friend asks.
"Oh God, no. It's so easy. You could wear flip-flops," my other friend replies.
So five of us drive to Gile, following the only-in-the-Upper-Valley directions that instruct us to turn at the "veteran Spruce tree." Being among a group of people who are really only familiar with the more amateur Spruce trees, we struggled a bit to find the trail, but that only made our arrival even more exciting.
"Woo," I'm assuming someone said. (We're girls.)
But then, disaster strikes. And by "disaster," I mean the glaring inevitability that one of us really should have predicted: The mountain is covered in snow. How could this be possible, when it is only the first warm day of spring and there has been no time for it to melt at such a high altitude? Erroneous!
I refuse to turn back, still feeling guilty about never doing the Polar Bear Swim. (The source of my guilt is unclear. Probably the polar bears.) So we decide to go through with the hike. We feel brave. We are idiots.
After about five minutes, our sneakers are completely soaked through (if only we'd worn flip-flops), and three of us have fallen at least once. There is a very real possibility that the girl at the head of the line (obviously not me) will slide backwards and kill us all. The temperatures of my feet and my face are at odds the lower half of my body is going numb, while the top half is sweating profusely. I can't tell if anyone else is quietly weeping because we're all wearing sunglasses, but it's comforting to assume they are. We encounter a group of little kids wearing snow boots who are smug as shit. (Whatever, assholes, I know your parents dressed you.) I step in a deep patch of snow and my leg gets caught. I consider staying there indefinitely. No, I need that check mark on my list and we obviously can't come back and do this under more ideal conditions (duh). I will get to the top.
Suddenly, a man runs past us in a manner only befitting someone running from a wildebeest. I Google "wildebeests Upper Valley" on my phone and discover that their presence is unlikely. And then it hits me: That's his strategy for going back down the mountain. Shit. We have to get back down. This is now all I can think about. I'm preoccupied by the imminent doom of the trip back down to the car. and barely realize we've made it to the actual fire tower (which was a great feeling of accomplishment and a wonderful bonding experience and breathtaking views and blahblahInowhavepneumonia).
Turns out, going down the mountain is basically like going up it, except everyone falls twice as much and people with ice skating experience have a sizeable advantage. So I'm pretty sure there's a secret population of wildebeests on Gile mountain. And that bucket lists are the worst. But I'll probably still try to finish it. For the polar bears.
