I looked forward to our 49th wedding anniversary with joy and gratitude.
To celebrate, Andy and I planned a return to Stissing Mountain, where last year’s anniversary hike had ended with seven hours of wandering, bee stings, and a rescue by a state forest ranger. (Thank you, Griggsby!) This time, we promised ourselves, we would do it right. We would descend on the right side of the mountain, follow the blue trail markers, and avoid distractions. No rescue calls, no breadcrumbs.
Still, in my mind, little Stissing had grown into Mount Everest. What if we couldn’t breathe? What if a storm rolled in and stranded us? That’s what happened to a multigenerational group that had to be carried down the mountain on stretchers a year ago. And the bear question: Do you back up quietly, clap your hands, sing loudly, play dead, or run for your life? I’ll never get those instructions straight.
The “what ifs” left me sleepless. My mother’s voice echoed from decades ago: “Don’t look for trouble; trouble finds you.” Andy’s voice, steadier and closer, cut through. “You’re 72 years old and in great shape. What are you waiting for?” After 49 years together, I chose to listen.
We picked a day with a forecast of 77 degrees, climbing into the 90s. Zero percent chance of rain. High but manageable pollen. “Could conditions get any better?” I thought. Before leaving, I told a neighbor of our plans. She asked what time she should call 911. What nerve!
We sprayed our clothes and boots for ticks, packed our backpacks, and reviewed Google Maps and the AllTrails app as if we were preparing for space flight. At the Lake Road parking lot, all systems were go.
In retrospect, the buildup was absurd. Two-point-two miles. Hardly Lewis and Clark. But once we started, the hike had its own quiet grandeur. Oaks and sugar maples shaded our climb. Granite rocks acted as steps, sometimes helpful, sometimes punishing. We paused on stumps and stones to catch our breath.
Stissing Mountain may sit just outside of downtown Pine Plains, but on the trail it felt like another planet. No sirens, no lawn mowers, no car radios. Just stately trees and clean air, as calming as chamomile tea. Birds punctuated the stillness. Human voices were rare. We met only one hiker — a woman striding down from the fire tower as we labored upward.
“Are we almost at the top?” I asked, feeling my heart pounding.
“Oh, definitely. I’ve been walking for only seven minutes, so you are really close.”
She hadn’t considered that we were climbing up — and were probably three times her age. Andy and I added 30 minutes to her estimate.
“Now the steep part really begins,” she continued. We added another 15 minutes.
Eventually, after a total hike of an hour and a quarter, we reached the fire tower. The view was magnificent, but we didn’t linger. This journey was less about the summit than the descent.
Last year, that was our undoing. This time, with AllTrails in hand, we followed the blue markers down. The route was longer but more forgiving, with a wide, grassy path. I swung my arms and even found a lilt in my step.
Before we saw the road, the whoosh of a car told me civilization was near. To my surprise, I wished for more time. “It’s over so soon? Can’t we just have a few more minutes?”
Civilization, after all, is not what it’s cracked up to be. Noise, trash, constant motion, the pull of phones and computer screens. None of it compares to two hours, 17 minutes on Stissing Mountain.
I’ve seen Yosemite’s El Capitan and the sunrise at the Grand Canyon. But I’ve also learned to love the modest, everyday beauty of the mountain in our backyard.
“Don’t look for trouble; trouble finds you,” my mother said. Had I lived by that, I never would have laced up my boots again. Andy, as usual, had the better advice: “What are you waiting for?”