Comfort or the Climb
More than just a New Year's hike
By Blair Knobel
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, Kim and I took a hike. The day was mild, foggy, and wonderfully atmospheric.
We chose Table Rock, a 7ish-miler near Lake Keowee that looms over Highway 11. It’s a monadnock, a singular rock or ridge rising higher than the surrounding land. Kim and I were familiar with the Table Rock Trail, hiking it almost three years ago right before the pandemic, and I’d done it years before then. I recalled that it was challenging, but thought less about the difficulty and more about the reward.
We’d gotten a later start near 2 p.m., which left about four hours of daylight to tackle intense elevation. By this time, the fog had burned off; sun and blue skies beckoned. We set off quickly, huffing and puffing and sweating and struggling up, passing hikers who were now cheerfully making their descent. We smiled through the discomfort, breathlessly wishing “Happy New Year!” to everyone.
The terrain changed as we climbed, going from spacious woods to rocky scrambles. We caught glimpses of the widening horizon, making note of our progress. At a point when we stopped to catch our breath, we passed a solo hiker coming down. “You’re beyond the hardest part,” she assured us.
“You’ve only a bit more to go. I also felt defeated here, but the view is well worth it.” Having seen the view before, I knew she was right. Her motivation was the boost we needed.
We trudged on as the terrain became more rugged. At Governor’s Rock, an expanse of granite with a majestic view, we were gifted with a preview of coming attractions. More folks passed with New Year’s greetings. “Happy January 1! Isn’t this the best way to start the year?”
The trail finally leveled out as the fog moved back in. When we passed the elevation sign—3,124 feet—we could only see the path in front of us. The view was completely obscured. “What does this mean on New Year’s?” Kim asked, laughing. “Everything and nothing,” I joked. “It’ll pass if we wait.”
And it did, just as we began our descent. The clouds parted, the sun shone, and a breathtaking scene opened.
As we made our way back in fading light, the trail became quiet. We encountered only two hikers on our descent and got to the car just after sunset. It was a burner of a climb, but so worth the struggle.
And it made me realize that we forget the pain of our hardest moments, only to make the climb again. If we remembered, we’d be loathe to do it. Life has endless peaks and valleys, clear views and cloudy ones, folks behind and ahead of us. We’re all somewhere on the mountain.
