Pictured here: not me (but SOON!)
Nomadkins dispatch, 8.8.23
(Since many of you have kindly inquired, here’s a quick update regarding the current status of the OFK, i.e., “Old Fart Knee.”)
“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” - John Lennon, from Beautiful Boy
Knowing John, he might’ve preferred the succinct, bumper-sticker power of “Shit Happens,” but of course that’s not very singable.
Disappointment, dashed expectations, plans gone messily awry, yada yada, etc. Part of the human experience for all of us—regardless of race, creed, color, national origin, gender identification or preferences re: hard or soft taco shells.
(I can hear each of you whispering, Yep! Been there, done that.)
Before arriving at Grand Portage—and after successful joint replacement surgeries/recoveries (right knee: 2015, left hip: 2022)—I had visions of romping joyfully and painlessly through some of the most pristine wilderness found in the lower 48. Hiking the many trails around the Arrowhead Region of Minnesota. Paddling the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. Snagging a giant Northern Pike on a clouser minnow hair wing fly. Total forest and lake bathing immersion, the sweet scent of Balsam fir in my nose, reminding me that, up here, every day does feel/smell like Christmas.
You know. Bucket list activities, years in the making.
But then, about a month after my arrival—and before I had a chance to really get out and explore this wonderfulness—BOOM: “Um, hey. Left knee to neural command center? I really didn’t like the way you walked up those stairs carrying that birch bark log on your shoulder, so just an FYI: I’m about send shock waves of excruciating pain up your way. In other words, I’ve carried your flabby ass too long. I AM DONE!”
And, like that, visions of a torn and/or shredded OFACL (“Old-Fart Anterior Cruciate Ligament”) replaced the vision of wilderness sugarplums dancing in my head.
The good news is, after hobbling/grimacing through my National Park Service volunteer life for the past month, I saw a fantastic doctor named Dr. Sampson this morning who confidently offered a precise diagnosis following a thorough knee-bending/twisting exam: a “ratty,” dried-out meniscus—possibly torn—combined with some rotten arthritis. Not uncommon for someone my age. No ligament issues detected. No MRI necessary. He also set up a comprehensive treatment/physical therapy plan that will hopefully delay the installation of yet another bionic joint in this 1956 model-year roadster.
(This after the first doctor spent about 7 seconds deciding a had a calf strain. “Ice, rest, stretching, Advil. You’ll be fine!” was her learned evaluation before mindlessly zipping out of the exam room).
Dr. Sampson, on the other hand, gave me so much confidence, in fact, I hope to make the trek up to the top of Mt. Josephine before I leave for the summer. Carefully, mind you—with trekking poles firmly in my grasp, knee brace cinched tight. It might sound a tad reckless, but Mt. Josephine ain’t Mt. Everest (and even children manage to scale the 2.5 mile trail), so it seems like a doable/reasonable goal that might go a long way in preserving my sanity since the thought of losing my mobility fills me with indescribable darkness.
I guess it’s my way of calling bullshit on aging.
And if the anonymous Google Image dude is still up there when I make the summit, I will gladly shake his hand and take in the view. Not of my inevitable mortality, but of the endless vesper sky over Gichi-Gami.
Peace & Love (and good health to you all),
Mark
Thank you, my friend!
Rooting for you, Mark! Get better and get up there, man!