“not today”
You learn all kinds of things about someone in the backcountry.
My dad started taking me backpacking when I was ten. To keep my legs moving, he fed me Jolly Ranchers and told hilarious made-up stories about wood elves and dwarves and a mysterious kickass creature named Princess Fleetfoot, who was like me in every way except that she was taller, wiser, and more capable of skewering evil doers with some kind of improvised épée. He also told hilarious true stories — which is how I know about the little-Dad incident with the hatchet, and the young-Dad incident with the not-entirely-baked beans, and the naive-college-Dad incident with the almost-fiancé who turned out to be interested in girls.
And as of ten minutes ago, it’s also how I know that the wise-grown-up-PhD-wielding-almost-retired-Dad is not immune to the whims and fancies of pop culture — for he, like me, is hopelessly addicted to Game of Thrones.
Not only that, he’s already up to season six, and I’m only on season one, and the gap is enough to facilitate merciless teasing and half-spoilers that drive me insane. Fortunately, our six episodes’ worth of shared knowledge also facilitates some slightly hysterical mid-hike shenanigans.
“Who’s you’re favorite character so far?” We’re lounging around on the warm rocks beside Ruby Lake, a perfectly flat, glistening alpine pool that’s currently living up to its name in the early evening light.
“I’m really into what’s-his-name, Arya’s fencing teacher,” I reply.
Dad throws one arm up in the air, brandishing an imaginary sword. “Syrio Forel!”, he exclaims. “First Sword of Braavos! From whom you can learn the water dance! Men are made of water, and if you poke them, they leeeeeak!”
We both bust up laughing. Backpacking laughter is a species unto itself — an unfiltered, ridiculous giddiness that blooms in your chest and expands and expands until it bubbles out into the thin clear air. You’re tired and filthy, and your feet hurt, and there is nothing but freeze-dried chili and Kraft cheese for dinner, and eventually you just have to laugh. You laugh because you smell bad and feel good. You laugh because you can almost-but-not-quite taste the pure, uncomfortable, awestruck state of living outside yourself, just another clumsy little creature puttering along under the huge sky. Maybe if you laugh hard enough, long enough, your mind will empty and the world will flood in.
I wasn’t sure if our own little ridiculous laughter bubble, mine and Dad’s, would still exist after all these years — but it does, and we’ve slipped into it effortlessly, like two goofy overgrown kids in a bounce house.
It started the evening we left the trailhead, as we were loading up our packs.
“Are you bringing that Nalgene?” I asked. “Or should I bring mine?”
I pointed at a little yellow Nalgene bottle dangling from a carabiner attached to Dad’s pack strap.
“That Nalgene?” Dad looked affronted. “That’s my pee bottle!”
Two miles down the trail, I was still laughing, I still hadn’t figured out if he was serious, and he was still playing the joke out like a master, in no hurry to get to the punch line. And it only got funnier from there.
Now, day three, the Syrio routine feels like just another piece of the long meandering puzzle. Waving my own ghost sword in the air, I summon a terrible Spanish accent and pile on. “There is only one God,” I hiss, “And his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death — “
I pause, for dramatic effect and also to give Dad a chance to finish the line, but he’s too far past Season One to remember, so I keep going on the next beat —
“Not today.”
The next morning, we hike slowly down into the Little Lakes Valley. The trail is steep and rocky, and Dad whines about his knees while I call him an old man and show off by hopping around on boulders, until the weight of my pack throws me off balance and into a bush. We laugh some more.
There are people on the Little Lakes Valley trail, more people than we’ve seen in days. Troupes of fresh-faced college kids wearing basketball shorts and inappropriate shoes. Tough-looking older women with fanny packs. A family of four with two little kids, one small enough to ride in a backpack and require a trail side diaper change. And finally, an old man with white hair and a white beard, leaning heavily on two trekking poles and working his way up the trail very, very slowly, one foot in front of the other, as if he’s hiking in a completely different space-time dimension. He’s accompanied by a woman a little younger than Dad — his daughter, I assume, or maybe a younger sister or a niece.
We stop for a few hours at Box Lake to set up camp. I trundle down to the lake for water, organize our food in the bear canister, and pitch the tent, while Dad takes his socks off, fusses with moleskin, and offers commentary on my tent stake placement. “I’m just trying to leave a nice spot for your pee bottle,” I explain. “God knows I don’t want it anywhere near my side.” Hilarious giggling ensues.
Chores done, we sit back to back with a rock between us and eat peanut butter-filled pretzels, gulping filtered glacial run off from a Nalgene (mine). “What are you bad at?” I inquire into the comfortable silence. This is what passes for small talk three days into a backpacking trip.
“Schmoozing at cocktail parties. Buying clothes. Abstract algebra. You?”
“Schmoozing, me too. Throwing and catching things. Physics. Thickening sauces.”
“What are some things you want to do before you die?”
“Run a marathon. Work in a bakery. Gallop on a horse.”
Morning is wearing into afternoon when we finish the pretzels and begin strolling on up the valley, leaving our camp to return to tonight. I feel bold and light, carrying only water and snacks. Around Long Lake, I do a little more ridiculous rock-hopping and outstrip Dad, frolicking over the trail and pausing here and there to splash the lake’s smooth, icy surface with my hands. When Dad finally catches up around the inlet stream, he’s out of water, so I sit him on a rock while I take the bottle and the filter down to the bank.
From here, we can see Morgan Pass at the upper end of the valley. Little stick figure people are picking their way up the final steep switchbacks, and Dad leans back and gazes upward, following their progress. Suddenly he calls out to me and points.
“Kate. In the dark shirt?”
I look, and squint, and look again, and finally see what Dad sees. It’s the old man from this morning. He’s still following the younger woman, leaning heavily on his two trekking poles, moving forward step by slow step.
We watch him cover the last stretch. I feel the persistent, hypnotic rhythm of those slow steps deep in my muscles, like a heartbeat. When the dark little figure finally crests the saddle, Dad exhales and remarks in a soft voice —
“Not today.”
He winks, and I grin back, a big fangirl grin. Together, we go on to the top of the pass and peer out at the vast sparkling world on the other side.
