We made it by a hair

"Didn't you check Google before we decided to come here?" my husband asked glumly after we'd paid the ten dollars for parking from the machine that ignores his Veteran status. He ignored the Rumplestitskian-sized temper-tantrum I was currently throwing in front of the "detour" sign that was barring my way from the gorge trail AND the life-altering shuttle bus that would be waiting for me at the top of said gorge. 

I paused to glare at him. "No, I did not think to ask the interweb if a state park was open in JUNE."

We weighed our options. We could skip the park altogether or attempt the dreaded rim trail. I watched a pair of elderly ladies carefully maneuver their walkers up the steps to the first landing. The delightful Belgium waffle I had enjoyed moments ago ("Whipped cream?" the waitress had asked. I had been confused. Was that even UP for debate?) weighed heavy in my belly. I remember clearly, Brad asking me if I wanted him to grab a water as I skipped happily across the ten-dollars-to-park parking lot. "Water's for suckers," I'd yelled. A woman with a stroller walked confidently toward the rim trail entrance. She was wearing flip-flops.

"What the hell, Katriel?" (I like this particular phrasing because it rhymes.)

As I staggered up the second set of stairs ascending to the rim trail, I began cursing my friend who had visited this park weeks ago and, to my admittedly absentminded recollection, had not said A WORD about not being able to access the gorge trail to this jewel of a state park. The gorge trail is the ONLY reason anyone would visit this state park. The parade of people lining up behind my snail pace of "progress" forced me into a theatrical pose of nonchalance as I assumed the character of "woman in shape." I quietly ("Quietly?" Brad asked.) bemoaned the lack of handrails, gripping the rock walls like I was scaling Half Dome. My orthopedic shoes were no match for the Olympic pool-sized puddles of which I was considering as a hydration source at this point. A three-year-old lad scampered by me sporting Crocs. 

By the third landing, I had added another to my blame list:

"How's it farin', Erin?" (See what I did there?)

Had it not been for Erin, I would not be on this death march (A contingency of tourists nudged past me, wearing sandals with socks. Their grandmother was bringing up the rear.). Instead, I would be at her house, seated on a counter stool, snarfing down ice cream for her annual First-Day-Out-of-School celebration. But...no-oo-oo. She had to cancel. Like driving one's mother to a doctor's appointment is SO much more important than feedng Amy Mosiman ice cream at 9:45 in the morning.

We'd been hiking ("Hiking?" Brad asked.) for hours ("Minutes," Brad clarified.) There was more sweat pouring off of me than water running through the gorge that I could hear but not see. According to Brad's report, I had turned an alarming shade of tomato red.

"How far do you plan on walking?" Brad asked. To be fair, the lack of oxygen to my head had caused any reasoning skills that I may have once had to completely shut down. I honestly didn't know. The grannies with walkers were still ahead of us. "There was a sign about a meeting at the suspension bridge for a tour," I muttered madly. "The suspension bridge is a mile ahead," Brad informed me as I sank to a plank bench, prone...immobile...defeated. 

No one else was turning back. They scampered happily along in their inappropriate footwear, lugging their
weight in water.

"A little further," I whispered hoarsely through my chapped lips and parched throat. My waffle was threatening to make a reappearance. Brad sighed as he hoisted me from the bench. 

Hours later ("It felt like hours," Brad remarked.), I stood, victorious, in the shadow of the suspension bridge. "Do you want to go up?" my husband asked. I looked at him like he was suddenly sporting socks with sandals. Why on earth would I want to do that? 

We made our way, slowly and carefully, ("That's accurate," Brad agreed.) back down the trail. My new goal was a container of close-to-boiling water locked in our van located in a ten-dollars-to-park parking lot.

Brad had larger aspirations for his waning wife. After escaping this hellhole, he pulled our vehicle into a roadside stop for some ginger ale (That waffle) and cheese curds. 

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I had gotten suddenly quiet.

Glancing at me, his eyes grew wide with alarm as I held up a rectangular piece of cheese curds for his inspection. Wrapped around it...coiled like a little snake...was a long brown hair. Brad rolled my window down for me so I could send it flying.

We sat in silence for a moment...reflecting on our day. Brad watched with some surprise as I reached into the container for another cheese curd. Noting his expression, I shrugged. I was going to drink out of a puddle today. A hair is hardly cause for concern.