Finding Our Way

“This is so boring.”

“Come on, Oaks. It can be fun if you let it. First, orient the map. Line up the north on the map with the north on your compass”

“Why are we even doing this? This is so stupid.”

“Watch your attitude, Buckwheat. Okay, I have the map oriented, now shoot the compass bearing to our first checkpoint.”

“Give it to me,” Oakley says as he snags the map from my hand. “I’ll do it.”

“Oakley, you just messed it up, now you need to reorient the map to north again.”

“I hate this! How many check points are there?”

“Twenty. It is only a four mile course. At least I didn’t take you biking.”

Oakley glares at me. This past Saturday I took him on a 77-mile bike loop over Evans Notch, and through the White Mountains in Maine and New Hampshire. It was a beautiful and adrenaline-filled ride on an unseasonably warm fall day–a perfect antidote to weeks filled with remote counseling for me and remote learning for him. The route was longer than we anticipated and required a full sprint over the course of the last 15 miles to make it back to the truck before dark. We made it with no time to spare, our legs screaming, lungs burning, and necks aching. Needless to say, we were exhausted, and I thought he would appreciate a mellow orienteering course as a follow-up adventure this Wednesday, but boy was I wrong.

We trudge over the Pine Land Farm Campus from one checkpoint to the next, Oakley grousing about how terrible this idea is while I vacillate between trying to be cheery and upbeat and feeling terribly annoyed by his attitude. I am sure my smile appears more like a grimace.

Things have been rough lately between us. He has been making poor decisions and I don’t feel like he has any room to grump at me. I remind him of this again and again as we walk. He reminds me in return that I am the most annoying mother; bossy and relentless. If you were watching us from afar, I am not sure who you would feel more sorry for.

Midway across a wide-open field, I get a text alert on my phone and I stop for a second to read it. Oaks reprimands me, “Stop looking at your phone. Let’s go. I want to get this done!” But as I read the words on the screen, the bottom drops out of my stomach. A friend of ours, who is Oakley’s age, has been in a serious accident.

“Oakley, I need a minute.” He absorbs my stress with a glance and I see it course through him via his emotional antenna.

“What happened?”

I let him know and we sit in the grass while I find out the details and make some phone calls. Oakley’s demeanor changes dramatically. Gone is his annoyance and impatience with the day. They have been replaced with the understanding that we are pretty damn lucky to be stuck with each other, out here on these silly adventures, regardless of our arguing and frustrations. After I finish, there is nothing to do, but to continue the course.

Now, Oakley holds the map steady. Now, he deftly orients his compass and leads us with purposeful strides from checkpoint to checkpoint. He asks endless questions about the accident, about everyone involved, and their conditions. Eventually, we learn they will all be okay. His face and his voice have grown soft and open, his bitterness gone.

As we near the end of the course, Oakley begins to joke with me that he is a map master and far better at this whole map and compass thing than me. He is probably right. One more tool that I hope will help him find his way.

“