It was just another Sunday morning. It was just another of our usual mountains. It was just 3,200 feet. It was just Mt. Washington. And yet, after only 2,000 feet I was wheezing like an old man. In spite of what my kids say, I'm not an old man. This should not be happening.
It was lovely as far as we went, but we didn't summit. By the time we stopped I was gasping for breath. We turned for home because my adventure buddies are understanding like that. We all value the experience more than the accomplishment so it was no big deal.
Going down was a lot easier than going up. We saw frozen waterfalls and a snow-covered forest that disappeared into the mist. I felt so good by the time we returned to the trailhead I didn't give the whole breathing thing a second thought.
But you know, I really should have. I should have gone to the doc right away. Instead, I waited another couple of weeks until I had another wheezy hike and I couldn't walk up a flight of stairs without being out of breath.
Only then did I go to see the doc. It turned out to only be my asthma, aggravated by the cold air. A tweak to my meds and I was back on the trail. Nerdier for sure, but back in the mountains.
The lesson: Don't be like me. Go to the doc when you can't breathe. It sucks and it could have been something serious. Once you get that straightened out, go climb a mountain.
