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
She hedged. Hannah began whimpering in the pack. "Possibly," she said, casting a worried eye toward her daughter.
Certain that pausing would lead to a meltdown, I did a little jig, cooed to Hannah and caressed her sweet, soft hand that was resting on my shoulder. The baby talk flowed from my mouth, and somehow "Ooooh, Hannah Bananna id good wittle monkey and cwimbs
big big mountains wit her aunty Rachel . . . " redirected her attention. Or maybe it was the pacifier Amanda popped in her mouth.
After a mile, the trail narrowed, jogged left and began switchbacking up a steep, rocky slope. As we gained ground, pausing where the trail turned right, I began to pant. Amanda took the lead, and I wondered if she wasn't inflicting a little punishment with
her long steps. She tossed questions my way and scurried ahead, leaving me to navigate my footing, the incline, and the difficulty of speaking. When we hit a shaded area, I begged her for some rest and water and mentioned that the "extra weight" was harder
than I imagined. She smirked — nicely — and said, "Yeah." Implied, yet left out, was, ". . . you dumbass."
I shot downhill as Hannah's whimpers achieved full-fledged crying, which I ignored.By the time we scrambled to the top, we were out of breath and hot. And late. Our trek had taken us twice as long as normal, and we had only forty-five minutes to descend. We swallowed the east-facing view of Boulder and Colorado's great plains. Then I took
off jogging down the mountain's backside, yelling over my shoulder that we ought to hustle. My three o'clock meeting was with an editor I very much wanted to write for. I momentarily forgot my goal (Amanda's transformation) and pushed forward. As we jogged,
I pressed Amanda further: "Isn't this great? Do you think you'd feel better if you did something like this more regularly?"
Then I launched into a soapbox lecture on how exercise is the foundation of my confidence. Amanda chased after me, pausing only as I ventured onto the slick rock at a particularly steep section. My foot slipped and I flexed my muscles to regain my balance.
I continued talking. Amanda interrupted.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked trying not to sound nervous. "Looks slick."
Her mother's instinct kept her from listening to my advice, which was probably a good thing. I stopped talking. Took a deep breath. Gingerly made my way down the boulder. Then, as I was about to resume my hybrid persona of Oprah Winfrey and Richard Simmons,
Hannah started to cry. I continued forward. We were still moving downhill, and her initial chirps sometimes evolved into sniffly mini sobs. I looked at my watch: a quarter to three. The trailhead was probably ten minutes away. I bounced up and down and again
attempted to soothe Hannah. In the shade, the trail down the mountain's backside was cooler, but the tricky decline traveled over a path strewn with sharp rocks.
"I think she's hungry," Amanda said.
"Yeah . . ." I stalled, then picked up the pace.
I shot downhill as Hannah's whimpers achieved full-fledged crying, which I ignored. Our hike, which had started out as a goodwill assignment, had somehow morphed into a hostage crisis. I was a terrorist, ignoring the misery I had created as I forged ahead
with my fanatic agenda. Curse the crying! I had an editor to meet. I knew I was being insensitive, and I justified it with thoughts of my career, my future, and the car, which was now only five minutes away. Then, in my mind, I got defensive. Who says life
has to revolve around every whimper? Maybe Amanda just needed to be a little more assertive and she wouldn't feel so conflicted all the time.
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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