The last time that I went on a grueling hike, I had been woefully unprepared. You know those cartoons featuring desert survival where the poor guy is crawling along panting, "Water...water..."? That was me except I had sunk so low that I had seriously considered the consumption of a discarded orange Skittle that was undergoing the fossilization process where it was being pressed into a dried puddle of mud. So as I prepared to climb Cascade Mountain (the most unmountainous of all the 4,000 foot tall Adirondack mountains), I promised myself that I would not be so ill-equipped that, at one point, I would look at my husband but instead see a giant turkey leg."Wait," I yelled, remembering as we drove to this unmountainous mountain, "pull over!" I ran into the gas station and quick bought a small bag of protein-rich cashews. Now I was ready. (I ate the York Peppermint Patty well before we reached the parking lot).
Many of you have already experienced the way up Cascade Mountain with me. But what you didn't know, besides that epic struggle for survival, was an incident that renewed my hope and connected me to nature in the most sublime way possible. The single incident that might be the most poignant, self-defining, soul-piercingly amazing moment of my entire life.
Death loomed near as the air thinned and the trail grew ever more perilous, littered with the skeletal remains of those who had trekked before me. "The only bone you might have glimpsed," Brad groused, "was maybe a fried chicken bone from someone's picnic basket." My life flashed before my eyes. Why had I ever limited myself to enjoying Pepsi only on Fridays? And why had I allowed myself to feel guilt on those days when I had indulged in two (or three or four) Snickers Bars at a time? And think of all the TV shows I missed because I let Brad talk me into going for a walk...outside? Think of all those times where I did fifteen sit-ups once a month. Oh...the waste.
And then, suddenly, we heard a squeak. "Excuse me," I said automatically, a modest blush camouflaged perfectly upon my beet-red sweaty face. "That wasn't you," Sydney assured me as our gazes swept the forest floor. "It's a chipmunk," I shouted in response to Brad's subtle pointed indication. Leaving behind the blurred tracks affiliated with the rapid movements of all cartoon creatures, our little friend sped to us via fallen log, beneath boulders, and around trunks. Pulling out my protein pack of nuts, Brad knelt and waited for the cautious approach of this shy woodland critter. The shy woodland critter then threw itself into my husband's arms, enthusiastically bowled him over and unceremoniously plucked the nut from Brad's hand with barely a hi-dee-do.
I, of course, was furious. "How could you be so selfish," I hissed at my husband. Thinking that I was concerned about the dangerous ecological effect of "humanizing" wild animals, Brad immediately apologized. "No," I snapped, grabbing his nuts...uh, I mean...the cashews, "I wanted to feed it."
We fed each other actually. I fed the chipmunk and the chipmunk fed my soul. You haven't lived until a chipmunk has sat on the palm of your hand...the chipmunk trusting me not to harm it...me trusting the chipmunk not to take a potty in my hand. And in the end...we both felt renewed and replenished. I went on to climb a mountain and the chipmunk went on to wash the windshields of cars trapped in traffic while hawking five dollar "I heart Chipmunks" t-shirts. Inspirational.
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