The bear went over the mountain

As I walked up my husband was standing with his hands gripping a stretchy exercise cord. His face was twisted and contorted from the exertion and his body was dripping with sweat. Our daughter was encouraging him to “try just one more”. He looks up and verbalizes what he perceives as her imaginary thoughts,

"Note to self: Kill Dad today and Mom tomorrow."

Immediately the girl tosses back, "Have I mentioned that I would like for the two of you to get another life insurance policy?"

“Remember,” I told her, “If I die on that mountain tomorrow you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with my brother and my father's estate.”

There is a grim group sigh as we all agree that it’s not a good weekend to die. Secretly I think my husband is pleased that we included him in our visit to the shinny new west end gym, but he sure knows how to keep secrets well. Earlier he had looked puzzled when we took him to the indoor track that runs one fifth of a mile around the perimeter of the building, explaining how excited we were the first time we put foot on it.

“We ran around five times before we even thought about it,” I exclaim. The spongy circular surface with the white strips does not speak to his body or mind, so naturally our plans for a Sunday walk in the woods are entirely off his radar.

I am also a little skeptical of my girl's ambitious idea to make the sixteen mile circuit of Mount Marshall in a day, including the 5 hours it takes us to drive there and back. Turns out I had nothing to worry about. The frequent bear spotting kept our little feet moving along the path, singing at the top of our lungs to either announce ourselves or annoy them. The trail didn’t seem as difficult as my daughter’s usual choice, so I opened my mouth and said, “Hey, this seems like it’s going to be easy.” There is a brief pause and then I feel a sharp pain on the back of my leg. “Ouch!!” I yell, “Something bit me!” After we determine it is only a bee we giggle for a while at the irony. Fortunately I have no allergy to bee stings unlike my girl, and I am glad the insect picked me. I make a mental note to get an emergency kit in case we have such an occasion in the future.

I was trying to be positive because on our previous trips my whining has annoyed the girl. I say things like, "What do you mean this trail isn't on the map?" and "We forgot what?" along with the usual "I'm going to die in these woods and I'm never going to see my first grandchild." I just insert that one for dramatic effect as I only believed I was really going to die once, maybe twice on our trips. Now she has a vision of where we are going. I know that. Honestly, I trust her, I do. I just like thing like a little piece of paper highlighted with the exact road we're taking through the wilderness, especially when we're hopping over fresh bear poop every 20 feet.

I do settle down about five miles along, caught up in the inevitability and the mechanical effort of setting one foot in front of the other trying to catch up with her retreating backside. I tried walking in front for a while when her asthma started giving her trouble. I had just pulled off the hoodie that had previously been tied around my waist because I was sticky with sweat. The girl starts laughing and I turn and give her a "what" look. "Mom", she says, "Those new pants are completely see-through when they're wet. Nice pink thong." So I have just learned something about my new lightweight hiking pants, especially designed for hot summer on dusty trails and wet ass contests. Thank god I didn't buy the matching tee shirt.

The trail seems endless as I trudge along reveling in my pioneer pretensions. I realized years ago after my first 10 pound baby that I would have likely been a “died in childbirth” bleep on some obscure genealogy chart had I actually lived in those olden days. I do love getting back in touch with the natural world, but I occasionally glance down at my French manicure to assure myself that civilization still holds me firmly in it’s comfortable grip. “How much further,” I ask the girl with the excellent eyesight who is holding a piece of paper with obscure topographical swiggles. “Not far Mom,” she repeats with a forced enthusiasm. I keep my deep sigh internal this time. “Can we stop for water,” I know she hates to stop and I have put off asking until I become dehydrated and am feel the muscles of my calves begin to cramp. I sip the tepid liquid and eat a piece of the turkey jerky she offers to replace my electrolytes. “I was wrong about it being only 3 more miles,” she confides. It’s actually more like 6.” My face falls and she quickly adds, “…but it’s all downhill.”

Downhill proves to be the roughest part of the journey. The trail is beautiful, like a fairy tale with its archway of green trees, flowers blooming on both sides, and everywhere in this late August landscape are riots of brightly hued butterflies. As in all fairy tales there are as many dangers as delights. Our feet are blistered despite excellent precautions, and the loose rocks under our feet stab us with every step. She decides that it would be best to walk faster and get it over with. I curl my toes down into my shoes and slow down to soften the jolt against the ground. Finally the last trail marker tells us it is 6/10 miles to the trailhead. “Only three times around the track,” she says brightly.

I lose sight of her as she forges ahead and finally can no longer hear her hiking stick tapping against the uneven surface. Things move in the brush, birds mostly I think, and the noise of the forest changes from the bright chirp of early morning to the steady drone of late afternoon. I am concentrating on my feet when I hear her voice in the distance. “We’re here!” I look up and see familiar markers and then the parking lot where we left little red this morning. Then there stands my girl, most beautiful when she is triumphant, waving her hiking pole over her head. “Hey Mom, that was actually 18 miles, not 16. I read the map wrong.” Sigh.