But despite this decision to engage with something else that is green, my father has passionately commanded that we, his children and wife, perceive as an unabashed "outdoor kid." OK, Dad. A wardrobe of fleece and gortex makes you a real mountain guide.
Unfortunately for my father, and especially for my mother, he chose a wife with staunch indoor leanings. Her ideal weekend is spent in front of the computer EBaying with HGTV on mute in the background and our dog, Cookie, gnawing on rawhide by her feet. At no point in the day should she feel cold. She loves our place in Vermont because she can entertain her favorite weekend activities with an impressively nicer view. You can take the lady outside... you get the picture.
Needless to say, my parents' commitment to each other has resulted in a lot of compromise. Dad knows that Mom has negative interest in cross country skiing, but Mom knows that she needs to commit to at least three hikes and seven days of skiing per year, non-negotiable terms. It's obvious my father appreciates this gesture, as those hikes and ski days tend to revolve around minimal incline and maximum lunch breaks.
One of those non-negotiable hike days occurred but a few weeks ago, when I met my parents for a couple days at their condo in Colorado. I'd flown in from Jackson Hole and was not only acclimated, but also ready for a good, solid day-hike. I assumed that because my father shared this desire, Mom would remain happily at the homestead undisturbed for the day. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived to Dad pleading her to join us.
"Weir, please come! We're going to this gorgeous lake."
At first, she held her own.
"I don't really want to, Michael. You and Liz go."
"But we can go as a family! [and in a kind of whispery tone] She's only here until tomorrow."
That tone, regardless of what he actually said, meant, "Liz, help me convince your mother."
"Yea, we'll have fun! Please, I really want you to come." I was up to the task. Obviously. The notion of my mother with a fanny pack is hilarious.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth excuses, Mom conceded, and slowly put on her hiking gear.
Mom wore a grin as we drove down the highway toward our trail head. It was sunny; classical music accentuated the mountains; she even contributed to our order at the deli. This was going to be just fine, said the little twinkle in my father's eye. Truth me told, I was skeptical. Mom was being just a little too agreeable.
The first five minutes of our "hike" was actually walking up a road from the parking lot to the actual trail. She stopped three times to "look at the flowers." When we reached the trail head, she need to "look at the map," and then she needed to "double-check our route," and then her back was starting to hurt. In her defense, there were some pretty flowers in the private residences we passed; and the map did present an array of various routes to our destination.
I've never been a great leader - my pace is typically faster than my counterparts, and I get impatient quickly. Today was no different, especially because it seemed that with every step I took forward, Mother somehow took five steps back. I was careful not to encourage her too obviously; if my mother is anything it is independent, and unless she is the one acting the part, she doesn't like "cute."
After four minutes I had to say something. "Mom, come on. You can do this - just keep walking." This was worse than any twelve-year-old camper I'd pushed up a mountain.
She kind of grunted a response. Dad tried to interpret said grunt and offered that perhaps she'd like to take off one of her layers. Her expression said that his was a sort of good idea. Long-sleeve shirt off, tied around waist (over fanny-pack), hands on hips. My dad and I cautiously continue walking. Mom does not follow.
"I think I'm suffering from altitude sickness."
"No, you're not." I responded coolly.
Twenty more step. Twenty more steps for me means it was negative one hundred steps for her. My dad and I looked at her incredulously. She was actually teetering backwards.
"I'm looking at the god damned flowers, Michael."
We couldn't contain it any longer. Laughter awarded the mountains with a free concert.
"I have a headache." Dad and I shook our heads. I looked at my watch. We'd left the car fifteen minutes ago. This was at least an hour hike with normally-paced hikers.
I told them that they should keep walking (in place) and I would run ahead to see if we were getting close. It should be noted that by this point, three hiking groups had passed us. All of which were larger, and all of which had younger children trailing (ha) along.
It took me less than three minutes to know that we were nowhere near the lake. I walked back to my poor, ailing parents, and figured either we force mother to endure the worst day of her life, or we admit defeat, drop her off at home, and go on another hike. The choice seemed pretty obvious.
When I suggested the idea and added that we all sit down for lunch on a nice looking rock (as we hadn't exactly reached anywhere with a view), my father was a little hesitant. I could tell her really wanted Mom to reach the lake. My mother was also hesitant, though more to avoid appearing overly enthusiastic. But I tell you: I haven't seen her eyes light up like that in years. We sat down on the nearest rock and I passed around sandwiches - we'd all ordered turkey with mustard and lettuce. There hadn't been ten seconds of content silence before,
"This is peppered turkey."
"So?"
"Peppered turkey hurts my mouth."
Shit. I offered an apology along with my bread, mustard, and lettuce folded into a nice veggie sandwich.
"No. Too many carbs."
My father offered her a Pria bar.
"No. Too bad for my teeth."
We couldn't help smirking.
And then she said in by far the saddest, most defeated tone I've ever head, "All I wanted for lunch was a turkey sandwich. It was the one thing getting me through this afternoon."
I apologized again, but it was uttered through so much laughter I'm sure she could only appreciate it so much.
We finished lunch and started the 500-yard trek back to the car. Ironically, my mother's back was suddenly fine. Her had headache had lifted. Her feet felt wonderful. She did everything but trot to the car, ahead of both Dad and me, beaming like a horse finally returning to its stable...
What I've learned: Mom will win the battle, and she will win the war.
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