Too Much Gear
Wear sunscreen, my children
We wonder, how can all these places survive? When some adventurous businessman walked into Keswick and saw a dozen gear stores, why did he say to himself "this place needs another gear shop, and I'm just the guy to open it?"
Tuesday was sunny and warm with a hint of high clouds. Here's how sunny it was: we bought sunscreen. When we left our hotel in the morning it was still cloudy, but by the time we drove to Keswick, navigated the pay and display parking lot, found the tourist center, and figured out which hike to take and how to get there, the clouds were virtually gone and the sun was quite surprised to find that it had the sky virtually to itself. The gear shops were all open but those racks and racks of gore-texy jackets looked kind of silly. We caught the launch around Derwent Water (which is a lake without the "lake") and spent the day hiking up the Cat Bells. Ava and Will bailed out for various medical reasons (so they said; grabbing a nap in the soft grass and sunshine may have been the real motivation) leaving Andie and I to scale the summit on our own. Half Dome it wasn't, but there was enough challenging scrambling involved to make us feel triumphant when we reached the top.
This is me hiking farther than you, Daddy.
We clambered down the other side following a sheep path and meandered back to town. We drove back to the hotel, cleaned up, and walked into Grasmere, where we had dinner at an excellent little bistro. Over our meal Andie laid claim to have walked the furthest of anyone. How can that be, I wanted to know. You and I hiked the same amount. Yes, she answered, but she walked to the edge to pose for the photo. You cannot argue with an 8 year old's logic, particularly my 8 year old's.
We go to sleep under a starry, starry night, wondering at the folly of gear shop owners and weathermen, the latter for their obviously wrong prediction of rain all day the next day. After all, the night was as clear as could be!
Until it started pouring. And pouring. One of the things we miss at home is a truly rainy day. We have rainy nights, where it pours all night, and rainy days, where we have showers, but rare is the day where it simply rains all day. Wednesday was one of those days in the Lake District, and we loved it.
Rainy days + email never get me down
We spent the morning in the living room lounge of the hotel, catching up on email and reading. We had a quick lunch in Grasmere and then headed back to Keswick, where Andie and I got the last two tickets for the matinee performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Theater by the Lake. It was wonderful. Indoor entertainment seemed like a good plan, so we met Will and Ava by the movie theater and the three of them went inside to see the latest Harry Potter movie. We saw it a month ago in London, and Will has been pining for a return engagement ever since. I decided to skip the movie and brave the dregs of the storm for a hike around the lake.
The fine path is likely mobbed on most days, but in the grey drizzle few people were out. I stomped through some puddles and around others, watching the changing light upon the lake. Three of the happiest dogs in the world played on its edge, bouncing and splashing like crazy until their master held up a stick, whereupon they froze in place, not moving except for their tongues. I smiled at the thought of what Kiana would do if she were here, charging those three dogs like a bowling ball intent on picking up a 3 pin spare. Stick? What stick?
I hiked on, getting slowly drenched, until after about a mile the path became completely flooded and I turned around. A jogger sprinted by me, shouted a cheery "need your flippers, mate!" and bounded into the puddle. That's when I started to notice it. Everyone I passed was fully tricked out from head to toe. The waterproof, lightweight boots, the rain pants, the robust parkas (matching, on most couples). And the thought hit me, as hot and suffocating as a non-breathable, water permeable jacket: I didn't have the right gear. My shoes were Salomon trail runners, so they were OK. My jacket was an REI rain shell - a bit flimsy, wouldn't hold up in a real storm, but passable. But my pants were - I hesitate even now to say - jeans. This simply won't do. I heard the call of better gear, and I responded.
The skies are clearing but it will rain again soon - go buy some gear
I rushed back to town, but it was too late. All the cool gear stores were closed. My sodden jeans pulled me down with the weight of disappointment. I missed my chance. I mocked the gear stores, but they ended up mocking me. Life's too short for bad gear, they said. Sale! they added.
We returned to London today, but before leaving the Lake District we stopped in Ambleside for some provisions for the road. As we pulled into the conveniently empty parking spot I noticed the store in front of which we parked. A gear store. All sorts of marvelous shoes and boots line the display window. Ava and I were drawn in. There, in front, they sat. A pair of boots the likes of which I haven't seen, serious rain boots. That's right: bogtrotters. The name said it all. These are the last rain boots you will ever need. With these, you don't just slog through bogs, you trot through them.
Ava wants a pair. She needs a pair.
Heck, we live in California, I say, we don't need those. What Californian needs boots called bogtrotters? We don't have any bogs! And if we did, we wouldn't trot in them! I triumphed, we didn't buy the boots (mainly because she saw some in Covent Garden that she thinks are cooler, but let me have my little victories when I get them). And the day will come, when the rains hit California and turn our trails to bogs, when I will rue that decision, remember the gear shops of the Lake District, and remind myself once again of that ancient adage: there's no such thing as too much gear.
