On the seventh day

I came home to swept floors, washed dishes, and packed bags. "You just have to pick out your own warm clothes," he said. At 8 p.m. Saturday we made tacos. We drank cokes out of glass bottles and talked about the colors of the sky when the sun sets. Each Saturday night, after I finish work at eight o'clock, we offer a quiet acknowledgment to six days of work gone by. On the seventh, we'll rest. On this particular seventh day, I preset my coffee pot to brew at 4 a.m.

Our jaunt to Red River Gorge did more for my refreshing my soul than Sundays of sleeping ever could. My usual seventh day follows a very logical order: Sleep late – how blessed 8:30 feels after six days of 5:30. Book, coffee, corner chair. Church. An afternoon of mindless diversion.

By 5, we were on the road. The sun crawled up the horizon as we turned east, setting leafless trees on fire and literally thawing frozen fields. That day it reached 60 degrees in some parts of Kentucky. We saw a man running on a country road. Our souls reached out and shook his hand.

The narrow, winding road through the gorge doesn't get plowed, though there are residents who use it regularly. According to the tracks they set to guide us, it is safe to drive in the middle, even if the frequent blind hills seem too frequent – too blind. We've climbed here only one time before, and it was fall, and there was a climbing convention. Now, empty and snow-covered, it felt eerie. The tight guardrail-less turns: unsettling.

We spent the holidays home in the frigid north where snow abounds, but I didn't do more than walk on it. Bowling Green hasn't kept more than an inch of snow at a time this winter. But in the gorge, we romped through enough to at least cover our boots. If I had to, I would compare it to my "winter" hiking trips on the Superior Hiking Trail in northern Minnesota – in March. Our coats were unzipped but the air remained crisp. We saw no human tracks as we hiked the trail to the wall we were set to climb.

The caver's route is considered a must-do, reviewers say.

"My first route in the Gorge, 1981 with my big brother Robert who got me hooked"

It's all chimney. The first section froze my fingertips, but I was jammed into a crack the same width as my body. I used perfect finger holds to hoist myself up a few inches, settled into full-body jam, and took a minute to warm. When I reached a point, Ben, my belayer, was revealed at the top of the route, peeking at me through a window just big enough to climb through like he was peering down the center of a winding staircase. In the final section, I was stuck each time I exhaled. Minor moments of panic set off enough adrenaline to inch my way to a wider area.

This trip was a good choice, I told him. "Why?" he asked. Because I needed to remember this is who we are. "What? Crazy?" Yes.

We ran down trails, using trees to brace agains the inevitable slip and slide, admiring snow balls that formed when just a little sticky snow shifted and fell down a slope.

We field questions regularly about our more unorthodox way of living. It's a contextual unorthodoxy: biking to work, working two jobs every day, shrugging at the temperature. To some, all of this is common. So we keep our mouths shut when others talk about money trouble or spousal separation because it seems better just to live the quiet life we've chosen without having to explain ourselves every step of the way.

Show, don't tell. It comes to mind regularly as I edit others' writing. As the writer, we think we need to spell out the nuances of a situation so readers grasp our insight. I started to feel like all I do is tell. I have stories from back there somewhere, but right now I just work. And I'm tired. I know – in my bones I know I'd go every week if I could, but I only have one day off and  ——

We drove home – west. We watched the sun set, bouncing its colors off the clouds, which reflected a rainbow in its fluffy ripples. "I wonder if anyone else sees this," he said. I hope they do.

Where it all began

This year's weather has been vastly different than last year's. I can't help but be...selfish. Last year's spring was perfect. It arrived early and stayed late enough to keep the lilacs in bloom for our June 2 wedding. We had them on the tables in the cabin up north where we got married and it wasn't too hot and it wasn't too cold.

When we got married, we went back to where it all began. We brought our family and our closest friends and we brought them to our earliest memories - jumping into Lake Superior, hiking through the snow and the mud, camping on the beach. It's possible that Minnesota's North Shore is actually perfect. Except that a week after our wedding it flooded. And this year when we visited in May, we experienced rain and snow. At the same time.

We'll treasure this place forever.

Hiking with my best friend

I found a blog curated by a married couple that lightweight hikes with their kids. They let their hiking philosophies permeate their marriage and their home life. They recently posed the question of why more husbands don't ask their wives to be their hiking partners. I'm so grateful Ben and I moved past that, both while we were dating and in our trip this summer. He writes that many (obviously, not all) women seem to lack interest or have fears that keep them from spending this incredible time with their spouse. He touches on several barriers, and I thought it would be a nice change of pace to build off what he wrote and talk about my experiences...as a wife who hikes with her husband.

1. They are worried they will be uncomfortable (cold, wet, smelly, dirty, etc).
When I first went on weekend camping trips with Ben, this wasn't my biggest issue, but it was something I wondered about. Primarily the whole bathroom thing. I guess my digestive system gets nervous because I'm telling the truth when I say I had no urge whatsoever to test those instincts on our first few trips. We were only out a few days at a time, so it was no big deal. Cold was typically a worry, as well, because Minnesota stays cold and wet for so long. Ben gets antsy and he expects to hike and camp no matter what the precipitation as long as it's above freezing during the day. I get cold fast and I stay cold. Fires help - daytime movement helps - but the nights are intimidating. I laid awake several times just trying to get my toes warm. But it was all about finding the tricks: be sure to change into a dry pair of socks before I crawl into my sleeping bag; use an extra liner to make the bag a little warmer; heat a rock in the fire to slip into the bottom of my bag when it's time for sleep. Then I had to learn the detriment of adding too many layers ... I'd sweat without noticing I was doing it, and when I would later shift my sleeping position, I'd have a nice wet spot that would inevitably cause a chill and keep me awake. When it came down to it, though, Ben was always looking out for me. He'd ensure I packed enough socks and layers, give me advice on how he layers during hikes vs. around the campfire, and sacrifice his sleeping bag liner when I was too cold.

As for other discomforts, getting over those came with practice. Each time we went out, I'd remove from my pack another toiletry I knew I wouldn't actually need or use. The goal of being out there has become enjoying life in a simpler way than we do at home even when we're constantly looking for ways to simplify. When you remove the choice (i.e. do you want to wash your face or don't you?) and answer simply becomes "not today," it's actually not as bad as you'd think.

2. They don't want to physically work, sweat

Bingo. I've written about this before, too. Hiking is a kind of work I've not experienced until now. Even mentally. I've had tough mental tasks before, but hiking long distances without basic luxuries is very challenging. And it's where Ben and I tend to get the most irritated because he wants me to get over it and I just can't. Or I don't know how. It takes a lot of patience on his part. And affirmation. I take failure very personally, and so I am able to motivate myself when there are no other options, but I still go for the other options until they're gone. Rest. More food. Shorter days. It has taken a decision between the two of us that we are in this together for each other and not for ourselves. We're not out there to prove our worth to one another. We're backpacking because we love it and we love the things we get to see and we love the challenge and we can't manufacture it any other way.

(Here's a great example of something I really did not want to do: In the picture below, Ben is towing a sled full of gear. We thought, what a great winter-camping technique we'd like to try. Only there wasn't enough snow. So about halfway through the trip (with two other people and one other sled), we divided the contents of the sleds among our four packs - making mine approximately 40 lbs, and Ben's 60 lbs. Work & sweat galore.)

3. They don't want to do the prep work
For me, this is true because Ben is so good at it - and so particular. It definitely has helped that he loves trip planning (and happens to be working toward a degree in the subject). He'll look to me to affirm I'm on board with the plan, but doesn't need me to do all the leg work.

4. They don't feel like backpacking is a holiday/vacation/downtime
I'm experiencing my idea of relaxation this very minute: sitting in a coffee shop completing items on my to-do list. For so long, I have subscribed to this culture's tradition of work being too hard and too demanding. So anything that feels like work (i.e. hiking) simply cannot also be a vacation. It's work. It's tiring. And it kinda gets in the way of me finishing the second season of Downton Abbey. But this is a mindset I desire to be rid of. Work isn't evil and rest isn't necessarily sitting on the couch. Ben is so different from me in this area, it will take a lot of time to find unity. We're trying to strike a balance between letting the challenge be as enjoyable as any other form of vacation, and not sucking away all our time buying gear and taking trips away because they wear us out.

(Below: how we spent Black Friday 2011)

5. They have fear of ___ (wild animals, lightening, bad guys...)
Not an issue for me. Maybe fear of freezing to death... Ben makes me feel very safe. And he doesn't tell me when he thinks the cougars are stalking us. Ignorance is bliss? Carry a knife and think big.

6. They have health issues (knees, back, feet, etc)
My health weaknesses have cropped up primarily due to my inexperience. Ben is thoughtful in giving me rest. He's wise in asking questions, checking in with me, and being prepared to stop if the issue were to become too dangerous. He's also, on occasion, open with his own pain, so I don't feel like it's just me. He reminds me that backpacking is inherently difficult and uncomfortable for everyone, and it's about getting tougher. I'm thankful not to have any life-altering ailments that would prevent Ben and I from taking these trips. It's my aim to go with him and enjoy our trips because I love him and I want to support him in his happy place.

7. She may say "It's just not my thing"
Remember? Coffee shops are my thing. Writing, photo-taking, organizing & cleaning, engaging in long discussions with friends & strangers...those are my "things." But they're not very social things (except the discussions part). Ben's "thing" is being an incredible, boy-scout-approved outdoorsman, and it's a very social thing. We take friends who have the same skills and friends that don't. We sit around fires and gaze at mountains. We talk, we write, we take pictures. So...this can be my thing, too. It fits. It wasn't my idea (and I'm pretty controlling, so that's actually kind of an important aspect to let go of), but it fits. He has made room for me in his greatest passion. He wants me to be there. He could avoid taking me because I've got a bad attitude or because I hesitate in agreeing to a trip. He could take his best guy-friends instead. But he doesn't. He takes me. And I get to affirm that sacrifice (trust me...that's what it is) by responding with enthusiasm...by making his passion my passion. How neat is that?