“'We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.
'Even longer,' Pooh answered.”
~A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh~
August 6th, 2013
When we woke up I confessed that I was more akin to a sleepwalker in the mornings until I had finished off at least a cup or two of coffee. I think it was apparent when I stumbled around while trying to walk straight. I finished some coffee and with Elsa on her leash we walked around the camp trying to remember the numbers of empty sites that looked appealing enough to make moving camp worth the effort. We found a few, then called the office to check on availability. We ended up driving down and making the changes, then heading back to tear down our stuff and pack it away once again.
We drove over to our new campsite and like pros we had everything set up again in no time. I wanted to sample the bike trails and he wanted to hike. We decided I would go for a quick ride and when I got back we would all three go hiking together. Our new camp site was right by the trail head, so I was off for adventure in no time. The trails at Devil's Lake state park are double track that are mostly gravel with some large granite rock on some of the hills. I kept pushing myself to ride, but the trails had no switchbacks and I felt like all I had done for 3-4 miles was climb long, long, long ass hills. I finally thought, "Screw this shit," and I turned around to head back since I knew it would be great downhill almost the entire way. Hell yes! Nothing compares to the thrill of barreling downhill over large rocks and gravel. You barely see the ruts and rocks in front of you unless you are squeezing your brakes, and who wants to do that? So instead you grip the handlebars tight, hover back over your seat and lean into every curve. It's a rush knowing you are taking a risk flying down rocky hills at such a high rate of speed, but trusting your ability just the same. In one hand you hold the fear of the risk, and in the other you hold the reward of the wind in your face and the confidence of making it down without a spill. The reward is most definitely worth the risk.
The ride back went much quicker than the ride out, and I was back at camp in no time. I was drenched in sweat and I joked about how he would get to enjoy my stench on our hike together. It didn't matter though, we set out and soon we were both a sweaty mess on the hiking trails. I had complained about the trails to him already, and now he had a taste of it for himself. We checked the map and realized we had missed the hiking only trail we had meant to take. We decided on a different route and soon found ourselves at a connector point for the Ice Age Trail. I'm so glad we had gone the wrong direction to start. The views were absolutely stunning. There was bluff after bluff on which to stop and gaze at the beauty around us from our high vantage point. Matt chided me about how I hadn't put my phone down since we got onto the trail. I'd heard that before from my brother the last time I went out to visit him in MN. I felt myself flinch, because I needed the accountability. I'm out here to unplug a little, and I can't even take a photo without also reading through my messages or responding to a text. I can't stand the feeling that I've been sucked in to the whole "world at my fingertips" mentality on smartphones. I turned my ringer off and vowed not to check messages again at least until the hike was over.
I don't know how many times we stopped, but on one of our last stops we both laid down on top of big flat rocks, closed our eyes, and just gave in to the serenity. When we admitted that if we stayed any longer we would be too relaxed to get going again, we agreed to continue back to the trail's end and back to camp. Once we set out again we could see the toll the hike was taking on Elsa. She had been a real trooper, but she was starting to let us know that she was no longer too keen on the idea of hiking. She would just stop in her tracks and stare at us even if Matt tugged gently on her leash. Matt doesn't have any kids, so Elsa really is like his baby. He started picking her up to carry her over some of the more difficult sections of trail. Smiling, I would use the silly voice I used to talk to my cat back home and say things like, "Oh Elsa! Your papa loves you so much! He doesn't want you hurting your poor feet. Such a spoiled baby you are sweet, sweet Elsa." He would also become anxious and protective when Elsa climbed too close to the edges of some of the bluffs or drop-offs on trails. In his defense Matt would make reference to my own children and how I would most likely be just as concerned for them if they were in Elsa's shoes. I found myself growing a whole new appreciation and understanding for the relationship between man and his dog.
When we got back to camp we all collapsed, Matt and I in our chairs and Elsa on the ground next to us. I got up shortly after, knowing that I needed to shower before I let myself relax anymore. We took turns showering so someone would always be at the camp with Elsa. I finally grasped that having Elsa with us truly was like having a child along, and even though my own children weren't enjoying this trip with us, I was grateful that one of us got to bring his child along. When Matt got back to camp he sat in his chair and began opening his MRE pack. I tried to refrain from giggling as he pulled out the different items and groaned when he read the contents of the different packages. "What? A peanut butter bar? I've had one of these before. They aren't very good. Whole wheat bread? Blackberry jam? Damn! I was really wanting crackers with the jelly. Pineapple? I don't really like pineapple. These fajitas sound good though." I told him he should just open another and find something he liked better. He argued, "No, because then I'll just eat all the good stuff and I'll be left with all the shit I don't want to eat and I'll never eat it. My rule is that you eat what's in each pack, you don't part them out." Actually, he probably dropped the f-bomb a few times while making all those statements. It's something I called him out on one time the night I arrived. I refrained from bringing up again because I saw that many of his habits and perspectives stem from years of living the bachelor life with only a dog as company. I wondered how much different my life would look if I hadn't spent the last 13 years raising children.
He freaking cracks me up. He knows he will give in to the way things are, but he has to voice his distaste for what disappoints him first. He's a pleasant bundle of pessimist and realist. It's rather endearing really. I told him this and he said it was probably a pretty accurate description. He told me that I was a pessimist who really wanted to be an optimist. I scoffed at his remark and then spent entirely too much time hashing over it and trying to decide if I was more pessimist, optimist, or realist. The truth is, I can be all of those things. Certain experiences or circumstances can trigger the many facets of my character. Then he said he shouldn't have said that and remarked that he can be a real asshole sometimes. I disagreed. He's just a realist. And he calls things like he sees them. There had been plenty of opportunity for us to cover a lot of ground, and I had certainly given him the chance to see some of the pessimism that resides in my heart.
Conversation grew a bit deeper at this point. I think I can speak for both of us, but I know for sure that I felt the raw emotions that are exposed when two people choose to be honest and vulnerable in conversation with one another. We spoke of God and faith, beliefs and disbeliefs. Conversation rolled through a myriad of topics. And for a second I saw something in my heart that I knew I should look at more closely when I had some time alone. I have this habit of feeling a void or a wall between myself and others when I explain my faith or some of my ideals, and they don't seem to understand or relate. The truth is, the wall is my own, and it has nothing to do with the other party. Matt made a comment about how it sounded like I really wanted people to see me for me. He said he doesn't even always feel like he knows himself that well, so how could he expect others to understand him any better or as well as he understood himself? I know he's right. There's a part of me that longs to be understood though, and I'm glad he reminded me that sometimes we just have to let go. Perception is reality. And I often struggle to accept that I can be aware of my own perspective and my own reality, but I cannot change the perspective of others. I don't feel like I want to change any one else's perspective, but I am rather sensitive about the perception people have of me at moments. I want to let it go. I want to be free in my identity and not be bothered or bound by what others think. It's all part of the process. I'm on the journey of letting go....but there are still days ahead of me. There's peace on the way when I bask in the present. The past sits behind me where it belongs, and the future provides reassurance in place of worry. Heaviness rolls away when I choose to sit between them.
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