My first hike after coming to Utah from the flatlands in the East consisted of hiking up a hill south of the reservoir in Tooele. From there I thought I could get a nice view of the valley. I saw the trail up the bald slope and it looked simple enough. Fifty yards up the rocky road I met high altitude hiking. Three steps and stop — to admire the view of course. Three steps and stop — isn’t that a pretty rock. Three steps, stop, hands on knees … not panting … looking … at … deer … prints.

I arrived at the peak two hours after starting, proud of my accomplishment. I pirouetted 360 degrees to take in the view. It was then I noticed I wasn’t quite at the top. I had stopped at what is known as a false peak. I looked up the 500 yards to the real top. What I decided was that the peak belonged to another hill and I had made my destination. I claimed success.

The descent started out easy enough. No stopping to look at rocks, views, hoof prints, or to search for oxygen. I spied a half dozen mule deer on my way down. I slowed and switched directions to stay in cover so I could get a closer look. I saw another half dozen or so then some more. Deer hunting was going to be easy I thought. That’s a story for another time.

Halfway down, I began to feel wobbly in the legs and wondered why. Was it the unfamiliar action of braking as I descended using muscles in my legs that had been dormant for years? I never even thought how much work it was to stop the descent of 200 pounds of finely honed fat. I began to take rest breaks again.

The drive back to my house consisted of alternately burning rubber and skidding to a stop as every command to my legs resulted in full contraction or full extension with no control in between. It was only a 15-minute drive extended by 30 as I explained my problem to the polite Utah Highway Patrolman.

Safe in my garage, I fell back in the driver’s seat and turned off the ignition. Needing a chair and some water, I opened the door and stared at the concrete floor of the garage, then back at my legs. They refused to step out as commanded by my mind. I lifted them out one at a time and set my feet on the floor. I used my arms to free me from the car. I staggered into the house, stopping at the kitchen long enough to grab two sodas, a bag of chips, a bag of beef jerky, a jar of peanut butter, and two candy bars. I didn’t plan on moving from my living room recliner for a while.

The rest seemed to do me good. After doing a forward shoulder roll to free myself from the chair, I was able to drag myself to the stairs where I used the banister to lift myself up and on shaky legs ascend to take a shower, ah, bath. Coming back down was thump, thump, thump on my butt.

Morning arrived. Newborn deer have more flexibility and less wobble in their legs than I did. But I was without pain and still proud of my accomplishment. As the day wore on, the soreness began to arrive. Two aspirin. Two aspirin and a heating pad. Two more aspirin, the heating pad on full, and some swear words. By dinner I began considering a hot bath — with the heating pad. The next two days went by with me in slow motion, walking as if I stepped on eggs. Thank goodness my house didn’t catch fire with me inside as my response would have been to observe. Finally, on the third day I was able to move again as normal. Saturday was approaching and across the valley lay Deseret Peak, only 11,000 feet high.

Glenn Parkhurst moved to Stansbury Park in 2003 from the East Coast and uses his observations while living in Tooele County to inspire his writing.