Random thoughts to piece out later:
Best Box bear boxes we’re thankful additions to camp life. Even though I find campsites depressing, and so prefer dropping camp as we go, this site was completely abandoned, and having the extra protection is steel boxes was just fine by me. I particularly loved that to open a box, the latch required teeny human hands. Like I had to take my mits off because only my fingers could unlatch the lock. Because it wasn’t like annoying child proof locks or difficult, I guess I found it charming.
While playing cards and telling stories in the tent (probably at 6:30p, all ready for bed) Max was mid-speak when he seamlessly turned his head snd finished his sentence with “…that root though.” His nonchalance, and unintentional way of politely NOTing the constant dig of root in his back, cracked me up.
I can’t figure out how Max walks so much faster than I. He’s not that much taller, and we seem to be stepping in sync. I’m keeping a purposeful steady step to make for longer endurance…and he looks like he is doing the same. Huh. Max averages about 100ft ahead at all times. When tired, my feelings get hurt that he won’t enjoy this with me. When inspired, I’m grateful we can both walk separately, and have our own experiences together. I know, I’m super dork.
If I were to write a book from the first page out, and with Max writing from the back page in, we would have very different stories about the same trip.
I started to get my back up about our morning routine. I would get the water, treat it, lug out the food from the box, pack the day pack, and set up as I do each morning at home. Walking back from hauling bags, because I am still the mom and organizer/ savior/ fixer of things, even though I have roots too and I’m not sleeping well either, grumble grumble, I snarkily thought “watch out for the pricker,” said Max earlier that day. Duh and harumph, I sneered back at his smug direction. Every pricker I saw, after figuring out what it was (they are remarkably camouflaged, red, soft and slight in appearance, and follow no noticeable pattern, so far as I yet can tell) I squashed with my boot to lay it forward and out of harm’s way. I might not be as graceful as Max-his elfin body- is in the woods, but I’m totally fine...and in that moment I was feeling like I was mom and son and not partners in crime. This seed, I suppose, festered, and I brought it up. One hundred feet behind, after being told I was wrong, or should have done something differently, I proudly said “hey it’s not so fun for me when you treat me like a child.” Many “what…?” And whhuutTT?!s were tossed over his shoulder until I finally unloaded. He looked at me, and understood…? maybe?
This brings me back to the weight I put on my guys, for better or worse. He should know he’s being a jerk right? As the person he bounces personas and attitude and ideas and styles off of, because I’m that rock (not necessarily as heroic as it reads, more like a pretty muddy rock that is always on the front step and hides the extra front door key), that too is my job, right? In the moment it feels selfish and then exhausting to explain that I have feelings and that they are not happy, but I DO it (not to be a weanie, but) because I really, really believe it’s important. Human relation is imPORtant. Treating people right is important.
Max carries the bear sak from hell of food from the box the next morning and said things like, “you did it last time, so I’ve got it this time.” I’m super cognizant of every effort and thank him with words, a smile, and an unrelated joke to keep the moment from getting too big and noticeable. He’s an excellent partner.
