That Fat Girl Was A Bad Ass

The very first morning at my B&B, I was rudely awakened by the blinding sun hitting my eyeballs at roughly 5:30 am. Apparently, this Inn never heard of blackout curtains. This would not be the vacation where I sleep in. I am an early riser anyway, and this room did not give me any other option. I got dressed in hiking gear, determined to go it alone, uncertain as to where. Plus, breakfast was included and a long hike meant you must eat first.

Our hostess, M, served a typical filling B&B morning meal, including a quiche, fruit cup, and bacon. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was to be my last decent breakfast for a while.

I mentioned to M, also a local hiker, that I was thinking about doing Arethusa Falls on my own. She said it wasn’t that bad. She was what my grandmother would have called zoftig, meaning not so svelte, so her endorsement told me if she could do it, so could I. Hmm. Maybe I am remembering it as difficult because my last encounter with the trail was when I was 83 pounds heavier, absolutely zoftig myself and completely out of shape. Possible.

So, which would it be? Arethusa Falls, the difficult mental game up steep rocky steps, or The Flume, the tried and true tourist destination, with its wide paths and steps with handrails? One real issue is that when I hike at home, I am never too far from a main road. It is New York City, after all. In New Hampshire, you are in the FUCKING FOREST, one with abundant wildlife who call it home and absolutely zero cell phone reception.

The other part of my hesitancy is the fact that I am now 51, and I see death way down the road, yet in view, and have no need to hurry it along. My twenties were lined with a death wish underlying each stupid decision; now I have reverted to being overcautious to a fault.

But this is my Year of Yes, and I was determined to make the most of it. So with my backpack and bear bell, I set off to conquer Arethusa Falls on my own.  Hopefully, bear bell is not synonymous with dinner bell.  It is a well-traveled route, so if I were to twist an ankle or need help, that shouldn’t be an issue, at least not one worth dwelling on.

In hindsight, I made a rookie mistake before the hike. I drank not one, not two, but THREE cups of coffee that morning. With the caffeine coursing through my veins and the liquid moving through my system, I was off.

The drive was identical to the night before, straight up Route 302, and I was lucky enough to have one of the clearest days I had ever seen. I could view the weather station at the summit of Mt. Washington, which is usually perched firmly within a cloud.

The mistake of drinking three cups of coffee soon became apparent, and I stopped off at The Willey House, a historical attraction, but more importantly, a place with actual flushing toilets. These are a rarity, usually one must use the dreaded porta-potty. No thank you.

Directly across from the Willey House Historical Site

Luckily, the trailhead parking lot for Arethusa Falls was not very far from this pit stop, and I continued on my way. As any person who drinks too much knows, this first time only starts the flow. Once you break the seal, as they say, you may have to go again. I can attest to this fact. The ten minute drive was now a decision making exercise in whether I should go back to the relatively lovely bathrooms, cleaned by the Parks Department, or take my chances at the trail with the possible hole in the ground. I forged ahead. After all, I have used the bathrooms at the Staten Island ferry terminal in the 1980’s and that will never be surpassed as the pinnacle of horrific bathroom experiences. But, I digress.

 I pressed on to the parking lot, and noticed the outhouse at the far end. As I was about to get out of the car, a large pickup truck races into the lot, screeches to a stop near the bathroom and a middle aged man on a mission runs at top speed to the previously mentioned water closet. Now, a man could pee on the side of any road, so I was pretty sure that wasn’t his goal. I start gathering my pack, continuing to side eye the toilet, waiting for him to exit.  My issue continues to become more pressing.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man emerges, apparently victorious. He climbs into his vehicle and zooms off, leaving a trail of dust behind him. For some reason, I am still considering this as a viable option, despite the obvious. I head over to the privy, gingerly open the door with my hiking stick, and get a big whiff that screamed “FUCK NO!”

What was I to do? Drive back to the historic site and their lovely loo? It was then I remembered I had a female porta-john in my car, in case of emergency, and this constituted one to me. I climbed into the back seat, did my business, and was quite impressed with the amount of liquid my body could produce within a 12 minute time span. Solved another problem. Side note: I highly recommend having this product in your car! It has a gel that solidifies with liquid, odorless, and easy to use. Definitely a 5 star rating from me.

Now, no more excuses.

I was ready to begin.

Walking up a paved path with a serious grade to the start of the trail, I saw a sign which read “One hour each way.” It was cool weather, it was early, and I was set.

The trail was rocky and a continuous incline. I watched my footing carefully, and overall this was no joke. It was rated as “Moderate” by hiking guides, but a “Moderate” in New Hampshire is a “Difficult” to me. I am a little nervous to see what their version of “Difficult” is. It might be my “Impossible.”

I continued on for a good 45 minutes at a pretty quick, steady clip. Some areas had a steep drop off, some were narrow as hell. It was a constant up, up, up. I did have the trail mainly to myself, and pushed the thoughts of twisting my ankle out of my mind. I was doing this thing.

Arriving at the payoff, the highest waterfall in NH, was beautiful. The last time I was here, being one of the larger people on the trail, I was shocked that I made it to the end.  I did hang back on the rocks, trying desperately to catch my breath and not sound like I was dying. Meanwhile, my husband and daughter scampered further, lowering themselves down to almost directly beneath where the water plunged.

Arethusa Falls

This time, it was me who took this path, scrambling onto the rocks below. It was incredibly peaceful to watch the continuing cascade. I turned and saw a multitude of multi-colored butterflies clinging to boulders. I gazed at the wonder I would have missed by not climbing down.  The Year of Yes!

I started back, and although I continued to watch where I stepped, hiking out was definitely easier as I was now descending. When I made it back to the parking lot, I practically cried tears of joy. In my previous completion of Arethusa Falls, I was morbidly obese and completely out of shape. Now, I was in much better shape, and  I had multiple weekly hikes under my belt. Plus, today, I did it solo. And it was TOUGH! Looking back, I don’t know how the hell I did it the first time.

So, kudos to the person I was, the one carrying an extra 83 pounds, the one who spoke to herself like an asshole. The one who pushed through when it seemed like it would never happen. The one who kept going when it was easier to stop. The one who decided not to give up. Cheers to that amazing person who persevered!

That fat girl was a Bad Ass.