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Is Learning ever wasted?

I love learning things, but of course learning begs for a definition; what does it mean to ‘learn’? Is it merely the acquisition of new facts, or do you actually have to contextualize them -fit them in amongst all the other things you’ve stuffed in your cerebral pockets? And what about something you’ve already learned, subsequently forgotten, and then rediscovered when you were actually looking for something else? Does that count? Or how about something you were taught when you were in school which turned out to be wrong? That was always the argument of the kids who sat in the back row of the class and wasted the best part of Grade 4 whispering to each other.

No, I suppose I’ve always thought that the purpose of learning was personal satisfaction. And, as an added benefit, a hope that by storing it away it may come in handy one day – sort of like having more underwear than you really need -just in case… Okay, socks, then. But you take my point: nothing is ever wasted. If something is really abstruse, you could always air it at a boring dinner party, or use it to impress an otherwise unimpressed first-date. There are lots of things to do with learning… Getting the date in the first place could be one of them.

But sometimes, it’s entirely possible to ignore learning when it gets in the way -think of religion, for example. Before I retired, I dealt with people from a multiplicity of faiths that all seemed to make sense when some of them chose to tell me their own particular favourite flavours. I didn’t exactly de-learn my own -not that it would have been difficult- I merely saw the sense in theirs. Conflicting views never disqualified their opinions for me, any more than adding different ingredients which I had never tasted before would necessarily spoil a stew.

Of course, the fact that I’d learned something and filed it away, didn’t mean that I had to put it up onto the screen if it was inconvenient. Like, say, how hard I should push my aging body. I mean sometimes there are sleeping dogs that are better left alone.

The trail didn’t look that hard -well not from the bottom, anyway. Sure it was all uphill -mountains usually are- but there were no warning signs, nothing saying ‘use at your own risk’ or anything. And it was almost in Queen Charlotte City -well, it’s actually a village- but, anyway, it was cradled in the protective arms of Haida Gwaii, so I felt safe. Enwombed, really: once you enter a forest here, you have to become fetal, I think. The trail is your umbilicus, supplying you, if not with supplies, then at least with the hope that it can lead you out again when you can climb no more. When your gestation is over…

A thick green rumpled fabric of trees crowded around me like whispering strangers as soon as I entered, and while moss on the decaying stumps quickly disguised the exit, fallen trees also blocked easy identification of the upward route. Everything folded together like a door closing on a darkened room; daylight was filtered through an almost impenetrable ceiling of branches, their myriad needles competing with my eyes for a glimpse of sky, and their fallen comrades hiding once-visible markers of the trail I needed to follow.

It was all a game for a while, I suppose, but I soon tired of scrambling over fallen logs and disentangling my pants and backpack from unexpectedly protruding and dangerously pointy sticks hiding on the lee side of the slippery obstacles I was constantly forced to climb. The always-meandering, seldom-obvious path began to taunt me with its unremitting omni-verdant tapestry and it threatened to overwhelm me. I felt as if I had been lured into an upward-leaning complex labyrinth.

And then it happened -I knew it would if I continued to push ever higher towards a sky I couldn’t see and a summit that didn’t exist: I fell -tripped, maybe- as I searched for yet one more marker to reassure me I wasn’t lost. I’d fallen many times already of course, but that’s what you do on a trail like this -it’s what’s expected on a tough route; it’s how they measure the difficulty -well, how I measure it, at any rate. But I never expected it to injure me; I never expected it to make me decide to turn back…

The me, who had climbed much steeper, more demanding trails over the years found it hard to turn around, but then the older, ageing me, looked down at its leg and saw a swelling the size of a cantaloupe growing on its calf and decided that pushing on was silly. In fact, pain made the decision that my brain was having difficulty settling. So, I limped and slid downwards through the bush. I have to admit it was easier than climbing, and, except when I found I actually had to use the leg, it was much like crunching through a green, leafy pudding. My descending route was far more direct than the upward trail ever was, and momentum -now my friend and guide- seemed to know I wanted out. The little creek I met, was also fairly cooperative, although I wouldn’t recommend it for the novice hiker, or anything.

At any rate, when I tumbled out the bottom end of the grinning trees, I limped my way back to the village and waited out the lump. It only hurt when I moved the leg a certain way -oh yes, and when I touched it- but I figured that was to be expected as it grew. Unfortunately, although I waited all night for it to go away, it didn’t. And neither did I. Finally, however, despite my shame at giving in, I hobbled off to the Emergency department -a little after dawn, so I wouldn’t have to wake anybody up.

After ruling out ‘compartment syndrome’ (which is when bleeding occurs inside a closed compartment and starts pressing on stuff around it) and intriguing the doctor enough for him to do an ultrasound, I was discharged with the diagnosis of a torn calf muscle and an invitation to return if it didn’t get better. I was also advised not to walk around for an indeterminate while -but, I mean what did he think I was going to do with myself? Read? Eat? Sloth out on a windy rock-strewn beach waiting for the tide to come in?

Nope, I found a sturdy pole and used it as a leg. I couldn’t visit some places, of course -poles are hard to take into museums without arousing suspicion- but everybody seemed to understand when I let them see the lump. I’ve learned that people are generally pretty sympathetic when you show them lumps, reveal some pathology. I’ve also learned I probably shouldn’t push myself as hard as I used to -so I’ve decided to wait for the lump to stop hurting first. I mean I’m not stupid, eh?

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