Lary Bloom Photo
En route: poison ivy alert.
On a Sunday morning in early October, with the weather too reasonable to allow another day frittered away watching the televised politics of aggravation, my wife Sue suggested we improve our sense of well-being with a walk to the top of East Rock.
In other local households, such an urging would not make news. But this was a first for us, filled with unexpected encounters and revelation.
East Rock, looming at its peak 366 feet above the neighborhood named after this stunning 200-million-year-old basalt remnant of the Metacomet Ridge, has been hiked, biked, and even run up, by countless people.
So, reader, why should you care about our first attempt to climb it ever: the two and a half hours that Sue and I spent trekking, resting, derailing and depleting ourselves on that fine day?
You shouldn’t, except that certain human discoveries may enlighten that had nothing to do with my distressed 76-year-old legs.
What’s Up, Doc
The challenge, viewed at street level.
The first surprise came when my wife, well ahead of me as customary, pointed to two women walking in my direction. I recognized one of them: my gastroenterologist. We stopped to chat briefly, and she introduced me to her walking partner, also a physician.
I didn’t think it was an ideal moment to discuss my private medical matter (a case of anemia), nor did she. But she must have wondered how it was I’d found the energy to pretend I had energy.
Forty minutes later, after Sue and I had made some use of a small part of the Giant Steps, refurbished with new railings as recently as last December, we emerged on the main road upward. We were met by two middle-aged fellows coming down after reaching the summit and the Civil War monument atop it. They advised, with good cheer, we still have a mile and half to go before reaching our goal.
I had a flashback to the many July 4ths that I ran the Chester road race. I was not terrible at it, constantly finishing the course in front of the ambulance, and once just steps ahead of an 80-year-old woman running barefoot. I always was envious, midway through, when the leaders and even some men or women pushing baby buggies headed for the home stretch while I still had two miles ahead of me.
Ascending East Rock, Sue seemed charged. There was no way she would be denied the summit.
I did my best to persuade her otherwise, pulling out my reliable complaint about the agony of the feet.
She said, “Look, we’ve been saying for five years we’d climb this thing. We’re almost there. We can’t quit now.”
View from near the top.
That’s what happens when you’re married to a person who believes in finishing what you start.
So we persisted, though we stopped briefly at a point where the red-tinged stone once again shot straight up and Sue pretended, for the sake of a photograph, to be a rock climber (which is not legal here). I posted the picture on Facebook. Within minutes some friends warned that she had stuck her hands in poison ivy. (The photo is also at the top of this story.)
Ninety minutes after we had embarked, we reached the top. If we were delighted by our triumph, we also shared it with many other people who did not look exhausted and did not rest in prone position on a park bench as we did.
From the summit of course one can see all of New Haven. The new bridge over the Quinnipiac River seemed to have toy cars on it. Yale cradled itself amid the vegetation (though very little of it ivy.) Long Island Sound was not far off. And the park below began to show its October glories.
It was a moment, certainly, to thank not only our bodies and minds for making this adventure so worthwhile but also those local activists in the early 1960s who objected to the original plans for I‑91 that would have split East Rock Park in two and otherwise demolished the very nature of a beautiful neighborhood. They succeeded in changing minds, and so today we can celebrate the abundant flora, fauna and natural peace that an exquisite public park provides.
Siri “Guides” Descent
At summit, not alone.
What I hadn’t anticipated, though, was that the way down would prove to have its own challenges.
I wanted to take the shortest route home. But Siri seemed uncertain as to how to guide our descent.
“In 180 feet, turn right,” she instructed.
But that would mean, literally, “Walk, you idiot, off a cliff.”
Then she corrected herself: “Turn left in 360 feet.” And then: “Turn right in 90 feet.” And “Turn left (now),” and so on.
My resident GPS counsel apparently goes wacky at dizzying heights.
So we retraced our steps, going back the way we came. We met a young couple on the way. The fellow noticed my veterans’ hat and mentioned that he too had just finished his deployment overseas.
This reminded me of my idea for the Pentagon. That instead of sending young men such as him to be in harm’s way, the military should send a senior force. For one thing, we’d need to fund only a one-way ticket, as we’d never make it back. For another, they’d help solve the Social Security crises if enough of us don’t survive. But, as sensible as this suggestion is, no authority has seen fit to act on it.
Midway down the trail, my legs seemed to be giving out. I thought of the quote usually attributed to Mark Twain, but actually coined by Robert M. Hutchins: “Whenever I get the urge to exercise, I sit down and wait for the urge to pass.”
Sue, meanwhile, was well ahead of me in her usual confident stride. I wanted to yell, “Take the Giant Steps down!” as that might cut off the trek by a few helpful yards.
Meanwhile, I saw a man and woman, on the way upward, almost sprinting, and a broad-chested fellow who dropped to the ground to do push-ups. Go figure.
When we got back down on level ground, a shirtless man, in our age group was on hands and knees at the edge of the road.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
He said that he was, but that he had lost his binoculars and was trying to find them. He’d brought them to rediscover the delights of one of our city’s natural wonders. He figured, apparently, that even if they don’t cure our ailments, they remind us we are part of a world that is more enriching than CNN’s dark reportage would show us.
When we returned home, we were too tired to make lunch. I lay down on the couch and turned on a football game. I saw men running around and smashing into each other. I thought, “Well, guys, enjoy it while you can.” And then I took up my more common exercise, a vigorous afternoon nap.
Leaves of three, let it be, for poison ivy.
East Rock and West Rock and Sleeping Giant all should not be climbed, they have lots of falling rocks, and even if you're an experienced climber, the rocks they're made out of aren't secure enough for you to climb on. Regularly over the years people have had to be rescued or have died due to climbing where they shouldn't. So stick to the trails and roads and enjoy the view safely.