By Bob Friel
Five hours into the Boiling Lake hike - still three hours from getting off the trail, back to the jeep and into traction - I'm halfway up another heartbreaking hill and ready to throw in the towel. My legs are rubber, my feet are lead. I take one step, cramp, grimace, rest awhile, sweat, then take another step. Thirty feet above me, my guide, Clem Johnson, is literally hopping up the mountain from foothold to foothold. "C'mon man," he calls in his Dominica-born, London-educated accent. "It's all in the legs."
Yeah, maybe it's in his legs. I wish I had his legs. Actually, right now I wish I had just one of them so I could beat him senseless with it for showing off.
