What Do You Have to Prove?

Last summer, Hubs and I went to Rocky Mountain National Park for a week-long adventure of hiking, whitewater rafting, hiking, photography, hiking, and taffy eating. But mostly hiking. Our major adventure for the week was a TWENTY MILE hike down over a valley, over the Continental Divide, and up the other mountain. Our goal was to get to a lake that was actually the starting point of the Colorado River. Hubs, being ex-military and hiking enthusiast that he is, packed his rucksack like a pro. We had food, a poncho, a pony, a flashlight, and a first aid kit. That thing was HEAVY. What did I carry?

The water. One, measly little Camelbak full of water. It weighed maybe 9 pounds. I was furious, but I tried to keep my mouth shut.

We started off with a considerable amount of layers on. Being that we were already pretty high, the air was thin and it was cold that morning. We both had multiple layers of breathable clothing, ate a good breakfast (in relative terms) (ok, it was crap from McDonalds) and were excited about trying to do this. I had never done anything like this, but I was with Hubs, so I was invincible.

The views and the atmosphere were absolutely stunning. We weren’t running, but we did hit a pretty impressive pace. We’d stop for water and realize how high we were. Hubs had to teach me something they learned in HALT training: how to breathe. Shortly, how to force air to your brain before you pass out. It wasn’t long before we realized that all the people who were joyfully hiking with us were no longer behind us. We were on our own now. And Hubs looked like he was getting tired.

I wanted to show him that I could be an asset. I wanted to show him that I was just as capable as he was.

I wanted to prove to him that I was valuable.

We stopped for a snack break beneath a beautiful tree on Thunder Pass. It was quietly sleeting/raining, and it was so amazingly peaceful. Literally no one was out there. I really wanted to give him a break, so we laughed over dried cherries and beef jerky. It wasn’t until later when I’d learn the best lesson I’ve ever learned about myself.

Fast forward about 9 miles, we are soooo close to the lake that we’re almost running trying to get there. Ok, running is a strong word; we were dying. Combined with altitude, the fact that the “trail” was literally a 45-degree angle, and we had already hiked 12 miles, we were shuffling.

Desperate to give my husband a break, I asked and asked and asked to help carry the rucksack. Finally, he was tired enough to let me help him, and switched me.

That thing weighed at least 200 pounds. I swear to God. It was like carrying a bag of concrete strapped to my chest. The belt hit right below my diaphragm and made it impossible to breathe. I was determined to at least help him a little, and shuffled my way about 8 miles – or 9 feet, whichever came first…

He took the rucksack back from me. I almost puked. That’s when it occurred to me: he needed to do this. He needed to be this man. It was never about how I could help him or what I could do for him: it was about what he needed to do. I wasn’t built to handle his job.

Now, I could go into 100 reasons why I wasn’t able to complete this task: I wasn’t doing gluten-free anything, and so my muscles were filled with MSG, I was tired already, the pack was situated weird, my mommy didn’t hold me enough, whatever. The point is, feminism only goes so far in a relationship. Love never asks about our ability to do stuff. Love only asks that we BE what we need to be. Hubs didn’t need me to carry his load; he needed a cheerleader.

And I was so caught up in proving I was as good as he was, that I missed my chance to cheer him on. I missed my chance to be what he needed me to be. I missed my chance to let him be the leader he wanted to be.

And we missed the lake.

We promised ourselves that we’d go back to Thunder Pass when baby J gets a little older and try again.