Mount Eisenhower Hike, aka How to Be Sore for a Week

About to start! So innocent, so young.

Last Sunday, between wiping sweat from my eyes and deciding which rock to place my foot on next, I silently cursed the mountain I had foolishly agreed to climb that morning. My dad was some feet below me, my brother already at the top, and my thighs burned. Mount Eisenhower sits on the western side of the Coachella Valley, and looks beautiful from the lunch terrace at El Dorado Country Club. But climbing it is a different story.

My dad, brother and I set off that morning around 8am, and the mountain slowly sloped until we were scrambling up rocky terrain. It reminded me exactly of day 4 on Kilimanjaro, and I told my dad as much. John had already climbed ahead--the marine wanting to be at the top in under an hour--as we lagged behind.

"This first third is the steepest part," my dad said from below, remembering when he climbed it many years before. I was going a little faster now, my legs remembering how to climb, my hands wanting to clasp the next rock ahead of me. I can do this, I thought, it's not so bad.

Unfortunately, Dad and I were both wrong. We reached the peak of the first section, only to find nothing more than very steep and very rocky terrain to the top. There was no trail. Only red flags to mark where the trail should have been. We thought we lost the main trail somewhere along the way, but couldn't be sure.

The views were pretty great though.

Dad and I stopped to rest a few times, sip some water, and yell for John. He never responded, out of hearing range we supposed, and we kept climbing. About thirty feet from the top (this is only my estimation), I almost fell. A huge boulder was perched on the side of the slope, and I hoped to God it didn't fall on me. I had visions of James Franco in that movie where the a giant rock pins his arm and he has to cut it off with a pocket knife. I didn't have a knife, and this boulder would instead probably pin my head and kill me. That's when I decided to turn around. I sat as best I could on the loose rock and little footing, and shouted to Dad that I was ready to call it. He agreed.

John met us a few minutes later, descending with all the gracefulness of a mountain lion on the rocky slope. We hobbled down, and two hours later were back in the car, exhausted, legs aching, bleeding a little bit, and vowing never to climb that mountain again. My hiking days may not be over, but I'd say they are in Palm Desert. That mountain got the best of me, and for now I'm completely fine with it. I'd rather enjoy it from the terrace, anyway.

Probably getting irritable.

Finally down...I only smiled to prevent the tears from coming.