“It might be too difficult…”
For meare the words he’s not saying. Each time he looks between the map and me, his concern slaps into me. He worries about my ability to traverse the rest of this. He doesn’t need to say it, I know it. Certainty swirls in my gut like an acrid stew.
“Ican do this.” I stand tall, hoping something in my posture communicates to him that I’m able do this.
It’s not that much further. We climbed over rocks, boulders, and up steep inclines already without me dragging us down. True, he’s probably slower with me, but we’re doing this. I’m doing this. Garrett and I need to trust in each other’s abilities to know ourselves. Whether on the track, on a hike, or in other parts of our relationship.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I nod.
I try not to fixate on his lack of acknowledgment of my declaration that I can do this. He’s just checking in. I need to settle into that, and not in the hiss inside me that he thinks I can’t keep up.
“Okay, pretty girl.” He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “Let’s do this.”
“Okay.” I force a grin, hoping it hides the complicated feelings knotting inside me.
Putting the map and water back into his bag, we move down the path. A series of up and down mini hills leads to a steep incline. My calves burn with each step. Despite my internal mantra quoting Dori fromFinding Nemo, the ache radiating along my limbs begs for me to just drop.
“Almost to the top?” I ask, my breath ragged.
“Yeah,” he pants.
Thank god!From what Garrett explained—now that we know which trail we’re actually on—this is the last upward climb. Once we’re to the top, the trail tucks itself up against the hillside or mountain—I still have no clue what these formations are—before a steady decline to a flatter trail until the path’s end. That and the ping on my fitness app calling out eight miles tugs me along.
He stops. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?” Head tilted, I wrinkle my brow.
“The trail…”
“What’s wrong with the trail?” I say, my already thudding pulse ticking up.Please, gentle hiking gods, don’t make me have to go back!
“It’s a cliff and narrower than I thought.”
“We knew that.”
“Not like this. The trail is about three to four feet wide. There’s no edge on the right side. It’s just a drop-off to the bottom.”
“How deep?” I poke my head around him, trying to see.
Depth perception isn’t in my wheelhouse. Big and small drop-offs appear the same to me—if at all.
“About fifteen or twenty feet,” he says.
I feel to our left, my hand coming into contact with dirt and rock. “Does whatever this is run all the way down on our left side?”
“Yeah.”
“Single file. We go slow.” I squeeze his bicep.
We’re so close. The last thing I want to do—besides plummet to my death—is go back. It’s not just about tripling what was only supposed to be a five-mile hike, but it’s embarrassing.We had to turn around because Jensen couldn’t do it.Even if he never says those exact words, it’s implied. If it wasn’t for me, he’d just keep going. Hikes like this aren’t new to him.
“Jensen—”
I squeeze his arm. “We’ve got this. We’ll stay tucked up against the wall and go slow. Even if this is morecliffythan we thought, people do this every day.”
He lets out a loud sigh. “Fine… We go slow. Remain quiet, so we can stay focused. Hug the left,” he says, his steady voice laced with a hard edge.
