My High School Mountain Hike

A memorable event during my childhood took place at Devil's Canyon, situated on Mount Baldy. I was in twelfth grade then, and it was nearing summer. On a hot overcast morning ,my fellow seniors and I were herded into buses, the humid air biting at our skin. My bus particularly was no refuge. Rowdy students shared seats, we all did, which would have been tolerable had I not been crammed between a wall and a 200 pound blob who I will call "Lane." I opened my window to get some oxygen, but I was blasted in the face by the harsh climate from outside. At 9:00 AM, we set out for our trip.

I have been to Devil's Canyon before, and I must say that its name speaks for itself. You have to trudge uphill through rough terrain the whole way, and dehydration is quick to follow. We never made it to the canyon that day, but this time would be different, at least for me. The buses drove up the mountain on a winding road. The higher we reached, the clearer we could see the pollution drifting above the small city that is Ontario. Having a dreadful fear of heights, I sat low in my seat. I was afraid that Lane might cause the bust to tip over and off the mountain side.

Two good friends of mine, Mathew, Matt by his friends, and Alison, were just one seat ahead of me. We struck a brief conversation regarding my black and white headband, which I wore zealously. I took it off for a moment and asked Alison to help me put in on securely and with style. I handed it to her, and Matt immediately snatched it away. "You know what's a cool way to wear this?" He asked me. With a wide grin, he then wrapped my headband around my head and secured it with bow beneath my chin like a girl. Alison laughed. "That's so mean!"

"That's good, Matt," I said. "But seriously, help me put it on correctly!" Throughout my years of knowing him, Matt's cruel sense of humor, and his bad habits, had rubbed off on me, and I beat him at his own game ever since. But I wasn't in the mood for games. I was too immersed in concentration, trying to look my best for the wood critters. We arrived at our destination. Gatorade and water bottles in hand, we set out for a grueling hike up the mountain.

At the beginning of our climb, I walked with friends, but I was burning to run, so I ran up hill the almost of the way up. We encountered many crossroads, each of which was about 12 miles long and vaguely labeled. Not one of them directed to Devil's Canyon, which resulted in our ill attempt to reach our goal the last time we took the hike.

But the trip was well worth it nonetheless. Rivers raged below us, large trees towered above us, some from which steam arose due to humidity, and the prize at the top of the trail made our hike all the more worth it: Snow.

We crossed several calm rivers, one of which had a log to run across. We also came upon an unoccupied shack, which could be reached only by balancing oneself across a cement brick wall, an unusual sight in that it was so high up the mountain and ahead of narrow paths. The higher we traveled, the more deadly the fall. Kelly, another friend of mine, told me that he had almost been knocked over the edge of the cliff by a rampant log. "I thought I was going to die!" he said.

Well into our hike, we at last ditched the teachers and reached our final destination: A snowy hill. I arrived late, however, and got pelted by snowballs, which were hard as rocks. I prepared myself for battle, scraping the snow away from its foundation. It was blisteringly cold between my fingers, and my aim was limited due to a cast I wore, a memento from the time I jumped off the school roof, but that's another story. I missed every shot at Joey, yet another friend of mine, but Matt was easy pickings. He sat at the foot of the hill eating a sandwich.

Joey nailed me with two pre-emptive attacks, each in which he mashed a block of ice against my head. Soon enough, I at last got Joey square in the face, but what was yet to come almost made me regret the whole trip. I was getting thirsty, so I asked Robert, who was king of the hill, to toss me my water bottle (I had him hold onto it for me). He complied. He threw my bottle to me from above, and it hit my cast, knocking me off balance. I fell backward, tumbling across a series of sharp rocks. I eventually fell into a rocky pit. Dazed, all could see ahead of me were a pair of legs, one from which flowed a river of blood. In fact, my leg was so covered with blood that I couldn't see where the flow began.

The guys only laughed, but I didn't mind. I just wanted to get some first aid pronto. I took a lone journey down the mountain, finding myself off course and weaving between bushes. My calves became heavy, and dehydration almost overtook me. I could feel the rough ground beneath my running shoes, and the searing pain of my wounds made my situation all the more difficult. After what seemed like an eternity, I ran into Ms. Walter, my English teacher, who would have been a sight for sore eyes had she not informed me that the first aid kit had been left on the bus. I furiously ran down the mountain, almost slipping off the edge, which would have led me to a painful death. I eventually came across Robert, who, after having a short talk with him, I left behind, continuing my race to the bus. Thankfully, I came across a familiar fresh water stream, which I used to wash my leg, revealing three deep gashes. I lowered my lips to the stream to take a quick drink and looked behind me. I waited about a minute for Robert, who should have caught up by then. But I had no time to lose. If I didn't apply an anti-biotic to my cuts, they would surely become infected.

I at last reached the bottom and greeted some of my friends. A husky guy who said he used to be in the army tended my wounds, but he had no anti-biotic at hand.

I ate lunch with my friends. We laughed together and cheerfully told each other of our adventures. But something was very wrong. Robert should have been there a long time ago. I ran back up the mountain a ways to find my friend. I at last found him limping down the path. He had a hole in the back of his skull.

He told me that he had tripped over some rocks that lined across a river, falling onto his ankle and hitting his head. He said he passed out for good long time. We walked back down together and arrived at the foot of the mountain trail just in time to leave. That's my story. My battle scars can be seen to this day, and sadly, I can no longer keep in touch with my friends. But friends inevitably come and go, although I will always have fond memories of them, at least until I get old and can't even remember what I have for breakfast. Come to think of it, I can never remember what I have for breakfast.