Bikemum

I am losing my mind. I am sure of it, but what option do I have? This morning, when I walked my husband to the ferry to send him off to work in the city, the temperature was hovering around ten degrees and the wind chill was driving it down deep into the negative digits. “It might be too cold for my bike commute,” I mumble, hoping that Twain will quickly agree with me and maybe even insist that I stay home.

“Nah.”

I try again, “It is freezing, and this wind is punishing!”

“You will be fine. What are you, a wimp now?” With that he gives me a goodbye kiss and boards the ferry, leaving me alone to deal with my demons.

Those are fighting words to me and like it or not, I know that I am going to walk home and climb aboard my bike to ride around this god-forsaken island twice to complete my nine-mile commute to my home bathroom/office. But, rather than being annoyed by his pressure, I actually appreciate it and feel myself rising to the challenge. After being married for nearly 25 years, he knows that sometimes I need to be pushed off the curb, for my own good.

I growl back in his general direction, but I feel my mind shifting from trying to find excuses into preparation mode. What will I need to survive this ride with all my digits intact? I will need rain pants over my sweatpants to block the wind, yet give my legs a full range of motion. I will need wool socks and leather boots to keep my toes from freezing. I will need insulated windproof mittens, a warm hat under my helmet, and a scarf to keep out the wind that will surely scream through the zipper on my down jacket. And ski goggles, I think my son Oakley has a pair that I can borrow. That should do it. That and some fine tunes blasting through my headphones so that I can feel like I am starring in my own superhero movie.

When I am all geared up, and ready to depart, I glance in the mirror that hangs inside our front door. What I see there looks far more like a cartoon character than a superhero. My hair sticks out from my helmet like straw, uncut for many months. My face looks pinched and severe, aging rapidly from the cold and wind that has been pummeling it through all our winter adventures. My yellow rain pants bag around my ankles making me look like a cross between a duck and an overgrown toddler.

I realize at that moment that I have turned the corner on crazy. A teenagers nightmare of a mother.

However, there is nothing to be done about it. I zip up the last two inches of my jacket and step into the cold. The wind blasts up around me, and my hair flies into my mouth. I crank up the tunes on earphones and do a little warm-up dance as I pull my bike out of the rack.

I take solace in the fact that many of us are turning the corner on crazy right now, and I hope my neighbors don’t judge me too harshly as they see me pass by. Their crazy is probably just a little more private. And I know it is this, or bite my son Oakley’s head off for just being a teenager. This, or nag my husband right up off the roof. This, or run for the hills. This or give up.

I don’t plan or hope to do any of those things. Instead, I will embrace crazy and laugh at my reflection. I can’t bear to hide inside.

The ride is bracingly beautiful and other than chilly toes and a numb thumb I am quite warm, the heat radiating from my heart and belly and rebuffing the cold morning air.

By the time I arrive home, I am nearly looking forward to my day of zoom counseling and the cozy chair that will cradle me for the rest of the day. Tonight, I will need to repeat this adventure for my evening commute home from work. It is like medicine. My son greets me on the front steps. “You look crazy,” he says.

“I am just doing what I have to do.” We all are.

We step out from the shelter of the ice-shrouded firs onto the bold, rock summit of Mount Moosilauke. Here the wind howls to a screaming pitch, forcing the snow to slam into our skin like frozen sand. My ears ache, my cheeks burn, and my eyes become narrow slits. Up ahead, I see nothing but white. I know the top is close, but how close? 100 yards? A half a mile? The difference feels like it could be a lifetime.

“Twain, I am not sure about this!” I look back at my husband. His cheeks are bright pink, and the fringe of his bangs are frozen into white barbs. I have to shout to be heard. The walk up to this point had been a long, steady incline, a five-mile meander through the safety of thick spruce and fir forest. It had given no hint as to the intensity we would find near the top of this mountain. Now we have to make a decision. We are trying to climb all 48 of the 4,000-foot mountains in New Hampshire, as a way to combat middle-age and COVID fatigue, and getting close to one of the summits doesn’t count. If we don’t make it, we have decided that we will have to climb all this way again.

“I can see a cairn up there!” he shouts. “Let’s just get that far and then decide!” I try to slip deeper into the neck of my parka and pull my hat more firmly over my ears. The snow is blasting into every crevice it can find.

“Okay, but that is it!” We scurry forward, through the blizzard to the rock cairn. Up ahead, I think I see another one, leading us to the top, but could it be a small, ice-encased, gnarled tree instead? “Okay, I will go to the next, but really, then we are just being stupid and should turn back. I don’t want to get lost up here!”

I am often in a quandary about whether I am being a wimp, or using good judgment. I really never know. How hard should I push myself? When is enough actually enough? When am I letting my optimism become a liability? I have been in the wilderness countless times and have even led many expeditions, yet all my experience amounts to little in these moments.

Heads bowed, faces turned to the side to avoid the full brunt of the icy gusts, we continue on, the wind bandying us about like human flags. My skin is burning now, and I begin to feel afraid. A slight panic pulls at my chest. “I want to call it!” I shout to Twain. Before he has time to respond, I see the hazy outline of a man about 40 feet ahead. “There is someone up there. Let’s go to him, and see how close we are, but then, really, that is it!”

We stagger across to the figure and see he is wearing back-country skis, goggles, snowpants, gaiters and over-mitts. It looks like this is not his first adventure. “It is terrible up here!” he shouts. “Real frostbite weather! Cover your skin!” I try to, but my scarf has turned to a stiff board and is no longer pliable enough to snug around my neck. “We are almost there!” he bellows. “Follow me!”

He continues forward into the white, his skis handily allowing him to stay above the drifts that have collected around the ice-covered boulders that seem to be circling the top. Twain and I are not so lucky, and post-hole behind him. Soon the post-holing turns to crawling to keep up closer to the top, pushing our mittens like boxing gloves into the snow.

Then, there it is. The sign that marks the top. I smile at our helper, trying to convey my thanks, and turn to try to scurry off this ridge as soon as possible. No time for niceties. I look back towards the cairns that will lead us back to the safety of the tress, but now I see nothing. Nothing. It is all white. Suddenly I understand how people can get lost 100 feet away from the safety of a shelter. A white-out is indeed just that.

I look down and see the holes that our crawling and post-holing have left behind. They can be my guide if we move quickly before they fill in. They are like the quickly disappearing bread crumbs left by Hansel and Gretel. And so we do, from one to the next until we reach a cairn, and then the next, and then the next.

And then we are safe. Once we reach the ice-encrusted trees, they create a wall, protecting us from the merciless wind. My hair is frozen into long ropey icicles, my hat has become a block of ice, and my cheeks burn, but inside I am warm. Hot even.

We decide to run down so we don’t get chilled, and we bound through the snow, stuffing sandwiches into our mouths as we move. The snow cushions our footsteps, and the woods spread out before us in a muffled beauty. “This is idyllic,” says Twain when we stop to catch our breath. I look around and take it all in. I feel the strength in my legs and in my chest and my heart. I feel like a child again, out playing in this world. Today, I made the right choice.

“Just jump.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“It is easy; a little hop.”

“Easy for you!”

We are three-quarters of the way up Hancock Mountain, a 4,300-foot peak in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and we have come to an icy river. The water is cascading down the slope, tumbling over rocks and boulders and splashing them with a quickly-frozen spray. A few days ago, it was a passable stream, but now, due to recent heavy rain, which melted much of the snow up on the summit, it has swollen to a knee-high, frothy torrent. The only way to cross is to hop from one ice-covered rock to another, again and again. And I can’t jump.

I never could. It is a weakness of mine. I blame it on my high school sport of diving, when I could rely on the board’s spring to propel me upward. The ground doesn’t give, but my body acts like it should. My highest leap is just shy of three inches. The cold water is calling to my feet, teasing me with its chortling splashes and bounces, and I know just like the river does, that my feet are going in.

“Come on,” coaxes Twain, my husband. “If Cricket can do it so can you.” I look over at Cricket who is indeed standing on the other side. Her long, black shaggy fur has turned into a coat of icicles, and she stares at me anxiously. Yes, she crossed, but she didn’t stay dry. Regardless, there is no choice; this is the way home. I rock from front to back at the water’s edge, trying to gather momentum, and I leap, perform an ungraceful pirouette between the rocks, and land with a splash in the water. It instantly fills my boots and rises up my pant legs. I scramble to the shore and stand beside Cricket, beginning to match her icicle for icicle.

“What was that?” Twain asks incredulously. He is simply amazed by what a klutz I am.

What it was, was a fall. Something of which I have recently grown quite accustomed in its many variations.

For example, I have been yelling at my children, arguing with my husband about stupid things, and being generally irritable and mopey—falls from my generally upbeat self. I know, I know—I am so lucky and should feel grateful, but the “gratitude thing” never works for me, it just makes me feel badly about myself. It makes me feel ashamed for feeling low, which in turn only makes me feel worse.

It seems like everyone is climbing mountains these days, ones far more difficult than the ones I choose. Teenagers climb through hours of screen time to complete a day of virtual school. The elderly climb through endless days of isolation, trying to maintain a sense of hope. People are climbing through poverty just trying to feed and house their families. Everybody climbing mountains of struggle, and here I am, creating challenge just for the fun of it.

I guess a big reason that I am doing all these adventures is so that I can feel like I am conquering something, during this time that feels akin to swimming in molasses. Plus, these adventures give me endorphins that flood my body just like the river flooded my boots. They are like happiness candy. They also remind me that the world is an incredible place, full of resilience, beauty, and strength.

This time we had to turn back after my icy dunking. We scrambled down the mountain and into the truck, where I whipped off my boots and massaged the blood back into my toes. But next weekend we will try again. I will keep climbing. I hope we all do.

It seems these days that many people are flocking to the woods, mountains, or even just their neighborhoods in an effort to walk away the Covid blues. Everywhere that Oakley and I wander, there is evidence of people coming before us, no matter how early in the morning we get out, or how out of the way any given trail is, there are always snowshoe tracks, ski tracks, dog tracks, and crampon tracks. A veritable parade of people seeking solace in the outdoors.

This week Oakley and I decided to stay in our neighborhood and attempt a biathlon of sorts. We drove our truck to one side of Portland, Maine, near the Presumpscot River and dropped our bikes. Then we drove back across town, to the far side of Congress Street, which bisects the city, and began walking. We were following the Forest City Trail. It is part of the Portland Trails system and combines sections of trails through various parks, through neighborhoods, and along waterways. No isolated mountain peaks or gnarly river crossing this week. Just a holiday-week walk in the park.

We meandered through the Stroudwater Preserve, across the flats of the Fore River Sanctuary, beside Jewel Falls, along the backside of Evergreen Cemetery, into Oak Nut park, and ended at the Presumpscot River Preserve. The trails were heavily traveled, and a packed trench through the deep snow made by snowshoes and hikers’ boots made walking easy.

We learned there are 152 miles of trails that comprise this city trail system, plenty to wear oneself out. In fact, it only took us these first 10. True to form, Oakley and I had a great time for the first ninety percent of our trip. We chatted and raced, ate footlong subs from a Subway shop that happens to be at the halfway point, when the trail leaves the woods for a block and parallels a commercial strip before cutting back in to a local park, and shared our appreciation of the natural beauty to be found right here in the city limits.

At mile eight, we began to flag. Exhaustion made us begin to bicker, and bickering is distracting and leads to taking wrong turns. Don’t get me wrong, the trail is very well marked, but when all the blood is in your belly from a foot-long Subway sandwich instead of in your brain, and your teenage son begins haranguing you about how long he has been walking in his steel-toed Timberland boots, your vision gets cloudy. Let’s just say 10 miles turned into 12 1/2.

When we finally reached our bikes, the sun was setting and a panic set in — how to make it back to our truck on our bikes before darkness came. As usual, we were a bit unprepared, this time without lights! But what is an adventure without a bit of adrenaline?

Off we biked, pell-mell, hurdy-gurdy, like bats out of hell through the city. Feet spinning, sweat building and breathing like race horses, making it back to our truck just as night began to fall.

One doesn’t have to add this excitement to a walk on Portland’s beautiful trail system…but one can if that is what one needs.

After my second cup of coffee, I wipe the sleepy tears from my eyes and head out into the winter morning. It is time for my commute to work, but today, instead of climbing aboard my bike, I step into my cross-country skies. The snow is nearly a foot-and-a-half deep and beckons to come romp in its pillowy softness. Into the woods behind my house, I glide, Cricket barking at my heels.

Some kind soul has walked this path in snowshoes before me and made deep, packed channels that snake through the trees. The snow clings to branches like dollops of whipped cream and holds the sounds of the forest, muffling them, and making the air feel thick and still.

A little farther on, I see the signs of a turkey that must have been dancing in the moonlight last night, its tail feathers creating a ringed pattern in the snow, reminiscent of what a dancer might leave from spinning in a reed-grass skirt. The feathers cut sharp furrows in the powder, forming concentric rings that spiral ever outward.

I slide down a hill onto the community soccer field and find that a quiet fog has pushed off the ground and hangs in a strip, hovering shoulder high. I duck under it and then stand up tall. My face pokes in and out of the mist. The cool wetness is caressing and the humid air, a balm.

Back into the woods again, this time with gathering speed, up and over snow-covered logs and stones, hills and hummocks, until I reach a ridge from which I can see the ocean through the trees. I stop and wait.

These are dark days. As a mental-health counselor, I am running out of consoling words. “It will get better,” I promise. “We are all in this together,” I remind. “You are resilient,” I beg. But, I see my clients’ worn faces and hear of their isolation and increasing exhaustion, and I feel I am running out of tools to help. All I want for them is to be out here, finding dancing turkeys, frozen seafoam, and ducking under snowy mist. This is the best medicine, this is where there is still boundless hope and beauty.

As I stand waiting, the sun finally makes its appearance, seeming to have to prod itself up over the horizon in a half-hearted effort to lift above the trees. It seems tired, like many of us are, like it needs to rest. But as the sun changes hues from orange to yellow, I watch it gather strength and commit to another day, to bringing a little more light to our world, every day from here on out.

Happy Solstice. The light is coming.

All along the ridge of Pleasant Mountain the snow has collected into deep, velvety drifts. It covers the blueberry bushes and boulders with a forgiving, white, creamy pillow nearly two and a half feet deep. It is the first real snow of the season here and twice as beautiful for that.

Oakley and I begin post-holing across the ridge to the summit, some mile-and-a-half away. Our hike up had been well-traveled and we had moved quickly with just our crampons. But now, at the summit, with each step we plunge our legs into the snow up to our mid-thighs. Nobody has been here, so there is no packed trail. We have no snow shoes with us, no gaiters, and no snow pants, but the sun is out and due to both our giddiness and our exertions we do not feel cold at all. In fact, as our pants become sodden and their wetness sticks to our legs, it feels almost welcome. We feel ridiculous in a perfect way.

Oakley bounds ahead, laughing out loud every time he steps off a ledge and is startled by how deep the snow pockets are. “This is crazy!” He calls out to the world. He is giraffe-like these days, and his long legs nimbly step up and out of every drift, before he plunges purposely into the next.

I follow him, weaving and staggering in his wake, but I am laughing as well. He looks back and giggles at my clumsiness. I grin back. “I am coming, I am coming!”

Taking up the rear is our dog, Cricket. She has to hurdle up and over the deep snow, again and again. Ice balls gather between her toes and every few moments she takes a break to sit back and nibble them out. Her efforts look monumental.

As we travel on, Cricket begins to wear out. She goes slower and slower and the distance between us lengthens. Then I hear her start to cry. This was something I hadn’t anticipated. I wait for her and when she catches up her eyes are pleading. This is too much for her, but we have gone too far to go back. “Oaks!” I call, “We need to drag our feet to make a path for Cricket! No more post holing—she can’t make it.”

Without further ado he begins dragging his feet through the piles of snow to create a path. I follow suit, and Cricket, the little princess, begins prancing jauntily behind us.
This is hard work, and we begin to truly sweat. Our energy begins to flag. If we stop, though, we will freeze. Our pants are now soaked up to our hips, and it is well below freezing.
I take out our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and we eat them and share them with Cricket as we continue on. She is delighted, unaware of how hard we are working to cross the ridge for her benefit.

Finally we reach the second summit, where to our surprise we meet a band of 12 senior women who had snow-shoed up the other side. They are chattering on like a flock of Canadian Grey Jays, offering encouragement and suggestions to one another as they navigate their way to the look out. Talk about some some hardy ladies. I hope I get a chance to join them some day when Oakley finally does leave me behind. Thanks to them, there is a packed trail all the way back down to the road.

And so we run, down off the mountain, feet flying, crampons sticking, wet pants drooping, jackets flopping and deliciously exhausted again.

What is it about the combination of sweating fiercely and being in the frigid cold that is so enlivening? This week, Oakley and I conducted a beach tour of the South Portland area in Maine. We biked 44 miles and visited seven beaches; Ferry beach, Pine Point Beach, another Ferry Beach, Scarborough Beach, Higgins Beach, Kettle Cove and Crescent Beach.

The temperature was in the high twenties and although we started out clad in hat, gloves and socks, it wasn’t long before we were stripping off layers and relishing the wisps of cold air that found ways to sneak in through our zippers and down our necks to create delicious breezes over our sweaty bellies and chests.

Bike touring seems to be Oakley and my easy, happy place. There is something about finding a cadence in or peddling that works for both of us. It brings out a reciprocal rhythm in our conversation. It is during these times that he most often opens up and talks to me about important teenage matters. Perhaps, it is because he doesn’t need to look at me when he speaks, or perhaps it is because he can always jet away from me if our discourse gets too intense. (Unlike being stuck in a car with me, when I have been said to be similar to a dog with a bone.)

Today his words flowed freely, and Oakley broached all manner of heavy subjects. I huffed and puffed behind him, wondering if 5 or 6 beaches were actually enough for our grand tour while he pattered on about major life decisions. I was attentive and engaged, but man was I tired.

At every beach we stopped to admire the the ferocity of the sea. There had been a storm last night and the surf was kicked up along the coast. Waves were cresting at six to eight feet tall and crashing down into a grey-white froth with rabid intensity. We oohed and ahhed at every one, jumping up and down and popping clementine wedges and granola bars into our mouths during our short breaks; racing to keep cycling before our sweat had time to freeze.

By the time we were finished, my bum muscles ached from fighting the head winds along the coast and Oakley’s eyes were rimmed red, (From the wind, not from crying!) but both of us were smiling.

I feel incredibly lucky to be on this journey with this kid. He makes me want to scream sometimes and keeps me on hyper alert about what the heck he is up to, but who else would get me out here, chasing after them, ears taut, heart open and hope burning? He is why I didn’t stop at five beaches, because if he wants to keep going…so will I.

Fat bikes don’t bounce. At least not these marshmallow-wheeled beauties. When Oakley and I decided to try our hand at this new activity for Adventure Wednesday, we pictured ourselves careening through the woods, popping over rocks and roots with colt-like grace, but instead we are finding ourselves plodding along as if the ground was covered with mashed potatoes. The energy that our legs expend don’t transfer kinetically to a zip, but rather to a slog. Slowly we squish over every lump and hill. It is like running with pillows affixed to one’s shoes. Soft, yes. Powerful, not so much.

The day is cold—23 degrees—and an icy snow is falling. We are prepared this time, though, and are clad in long underwear, mittens, down coats, wooly caps, socks, and, of course, face masks. They double as scarves in a pinch. Plus, the good thing about working so hard to gather any inertia on these bikes is that we quickly work up quite a sweat, and the cold wind on our cheeks enlivens us.

These days, I feel like I am trying harder than ever to keep us both awake and engaged in life, and part of that is creating purposeful challenge. If we can triumph over self-imposed obstacles, maybe it will make the challenge of COVID-related struggles seem a bit easier. I am trying to access our more stoic natures.

Sometimes this is ugly, and the truth is, many times on our adventures, Oakley and I have knock-down, drag-out fights; “What do you mean you forgot your gloves? I reminded you 10 times!”

“Jesus Christ, don’t tell me we are lost! You are the worst at reading maps!”

”No, we are not stopping for hot cocoa yet. We just started!”

“You are so annoying! Hurry up!”

You can probably guess who says what. Even these fights seem to serve a purpose, and they clear the tension that has built up between us during the week, trapped together in the house. When we make our peace, it feels calmer and more grounded than before.

Today, we ride 12 miles together, up and over icy hills and across wide pastures. There are flocks of wild turkeys in the forest and large patches of florid, green moss striped with streamers of snow. The opaque ice-covered puddles and streams crossing the trail make a most satisfying crunch when we barrel through them. It feels like playing.

We are exhausted when we are finished. Our cheeks, fingers, ears and toes burn with cold, and bellies and backs drip with sweat.
We end with hot cocoa and grilled-cheese sandwiches and talk about doing it again when the real snow comes. When we will squish and strain even more. When the snow will meet our wheels and bandy us about. When challenge, fun and self-imposed adversity will meet again taking us where it will. Where we need to go to get through this.

Oakley may seem fearless to most, but behind his swagger there are two things that cause him to tremble; horses and heights. So, for today’s adventure we decided to tackle number one.

It is a cold morning and although we are clad in long underwear, hats and down jackets, Oakley is shivering. I wonder if it is the temperature causing these jitters, or if it is his trepidation about finally getting on a horse. Until today, he has never had the opportunity.

A good friend and the owner of some sweet, gentle horses meets us at a barn and after some pleasantries, hands Oaks a shoe pick. “Okay, the first thing you want to do is grab your horses leg and pull it up, like this, and then pick out all the gunk stuck in around the horse shoe. Be careful though, a friend of mine got her tibia shattered the other day when she was doing this to her horse, and she was experienced.”

Oakley looks at me wide-eyed, but nevertheless leans over and tries to lift his horses leg. He manages one, but lacks the confidence to show the horse he is someone to be reckoned with and the horse stubbornly keeps the rest of her hooves planted firmly and the ground. The owner takes over his task.

“That is okay,” she reassures him, “why don’t you brush her?” This is much more Oakley’s speed and he gently runs the curry comb across his horses back, ever mindful to be ready to spring away if need be.

Next, we saddle the horses and awkwardly mount them, looking much more like weeble wobbles than the cowboys we aspire to be. On my first attempt, my horse walks away from the mounting stool prematurely, leaving me dangling off it’s left side and sliding back to the ground. Oaks thinks this is a riot.

Once on, our friend leads us down a wooded trail and our horses gamely follow. The leaves rustle under their feet and their breath makes steamy plumes in the chilly air. Oakley begins to relax and when I look back at him he is grinning.

“So Oakley,” our friend continues, “horses aren’t like bikes or motorcycles. They have minds of their own and won’t always listen to you. If they get spooked by another animal out here, like, god forbid, a moose, or if they hear an odd sound like a cracking branch, they will run. If they do, don’t jump off. They might be running 20 miles an hour, and that is how fast you will hit the ground if you jump. If things get crazy, just hold on and keep riding.”

Again, Oakley’s eyes bug out a bit, but he just nods and clasps the reins a bit tighter. He looks like he is on a first date; not knowing exactly how to hold his body or what to say, but quickly falling in love.

Now that he is all set, I try to relax on my horse. I am not fearful of riding, but my head is full of work stress, family stress and Covid stress all intertwined into an ugly knot.

Lately, I have been feeling more weary about this pandemic and our current political climate. I miss my mother, who needs to remain in isolation, I am tired of counseling via zoom out of my bathroom and I don’t feel like I am very helpful to my clients. The sum of my wisdom has been reduced to “Just hold on, keep doing what you need to to take care of yourself and you will get through this.” Not much different than the advice my friend has just given Oaks.

The day is beautiful and the heat from the horses rises up and warms me. The horses know these trails well and we are free to just let them take us. It isn’t long before I feel my spine rolling gently with the sway of my horse, easing the tension in my neck and shoulders and allowing me to quiet. All I have to do is gently hold on.

So, hold on I will.

When we return to the barn, Oakley slides off his horse and helps take off its tack. He takes a hoof pick and struggles to lift his horses feet to clean them, but he does it. He brushes her coat again and gives her a pat on the rump. Then he jumps in our truck where he is out of ear shot of our friend and it is safe to be uncool. “That was awesome!” he announces.

I agree.

“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.

“