Notes From A Non-Breeder: The Climb
How a friendly hike with my friend and her baby sent me over the edge.
by Rachel Odell Walker
May 26, 2009
It wasn't until we caught our breath and headed downhill on a steep, narrow path scattered with loose dirt and fallen pine needles that I questioned my judgment. I stepped onto a slick boulder protruding from the middle of the trail and my right foot skidded
out from underneath me. Reflexively my hands jolted out to my sides. My body froze, which startled Hannah, the nine-month-old riding on my back. Amanda, Hannah's mom and one of my oldest friends, trailed close behind. If I slipped, her front-row view would
confirm her fear: that this was too much of a hike for her young daughter.
Not that the doubts needed much confirmation. Amanda had already told me the hike was too much for Hannah. Too steep. Why not drop Hannah off at day care, she offered, so we could hang out alone? I, a childless adrenaline addict scoffed. Steep? Hannah wouldn't
know because she wasn't walking. Amanda protested the hike would be too long. Having done the route dozens of times, I assured her it would take an hour and a half, tops. Three miles with a 2,000 vertical foot climb may sound imposing, I reasoned, but it's
really just a swift walk up a local hill. As she considered it, I made my deal-closing offer: I would carry Hannah on my back.
This gesture was entirely selfish. I wanted to visit with Amanda. I didn't want to visit with Amanda in a coffee shop or a restaurant (activities we'd tried before only to lose an hour to mutual admiration of Hannah, followed by soothing of Hannah, who tended
to fuss in public). Plus, I was training for a big winter ski mountaineering trip in Italy, and hauling an extra twenty pounds up a heart-burning small mountain was great exercise. If Amanda objected to my objectification of her daughter (most
people train by placing a twenty-pound bag of sand in a backpack), she kept it to herself. We made a plan to meet at noon at the trailhead.
I believed Amanda could reverse her negativity with a mixture of personal will, therapy and endorphins. It didn't start out well. Amanda arrived twenty minutes late, sputtering out flustered excuses before she even set the emergency brake. I reminded her I had a three p.m. appointment and offered to hold her dogs' leashes so she could bundle Hannah in her
backpack. Hannah pooped. A diaper change, sunscreen application, unpacking of the car's innards and then haphazardly tossing the pacifier, blanket, teddy bear, snacks, water bottle, and baby bottle in the backpack's storage compartments ensued. I tied and
retied my shoes while waiting. I offered to help, but this was clearly a one-woman job — one that I didn't understand. I thought, "Gee, this is a pain in the ass." Then I felt guilty.
I smiled encouragingly at Amanda, who in her haste was getting in her own way. She dropped Hannah into the built-in backpack seat, tightened the straps, and hoisted her onto my back. We set out — Amanda
with two dogs, me with Hannah and my dog. We toured up the valley trail, a wide path that leads into an open valley linking a meadow-lined mountain and a dry pine forest. A deep blue sky and bright sun warmed the unusual January day. Vitamin D poured into my
body. Hannah kicked me and I took it as a good sign.
Yeehaw! We were off. We kept a brisk pace and complained cheerfully about the heat. Amanda, wearing long sleeves and pants, was sweating profusely, and considered stripping to her bra. As we moved further away from the cars and closer to the steep incline,
my heart began beating faster. I relaxed. No more waiting, I thought. Now we were going. We smiled as sinewy runners swept past us. I ventured an opinion. "Amanda, don't you think this is just what you needed?"
After all, she had been holed up in her suburban house for months, wrestling with conflicting emotions, mild post-partum depression, and self-doubt. Amanda had graduated from one of the country's best veterinary schools several days before giving birth to
Hannah, and eight months later, she hadn't yet found a job. As her student loans came due in December, she sunk into a morose gloom, berating herself for failing as a vet, questioning her mothering skills, and feeling conflicted that her husband was the sole
bread winner. Though I hadn't said it directly, I believed she could reverse her negativity and stop focusing focus on difficult things with a mixture of personal will, therapy, and endorphins. My (unsolicited) answer to her troubles looked more like a Nike
advertisement than a job and peaceful home life. Exercise, I thought, would be her salvation, and I would lead her to it — with Hannah in tow.
About the Author
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Rachel Walker is a freelance writer based in Boulder, CO., where she covers adventure sports, environmental issues, and more for a variety of publications. She and Mandy remain good friends.
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