Hot

My dad comes dragging in from tennis about the time I fall through the door. I have just forfeited Round Two with Tee. The mercury is pushing past 100 degrees. Humidity tightens its straightjacket around our tempers. We each down a tall glass of ice water then wobble into the shallow end of the pool.

“I started to get worried out on the court,” my dad says, wiping the sweat off his flushed face. “I might have pushed it a little too hard.”

“Yeah?”

I ease down in the deep and let him regale me with his tale of near heat-stroke on the scorching clay.

Two days of attempted diplomacy with Tee about our parenting agreement have pushed my interest in speech to its limit. It has also sent my self-control to the outer reaches. Tee and I made admirable progress during Round One, which took up most of Saturday. We gained momentum by tackling the less contentious issues first. We scored a deuce and called it a day. Sunday, we found out we were on an entirely different court. This one was made of tinder and flint.

In the pool, my dad goes on. “I just kept at it against the backboard, but I was starting to wonder if maybe it was too much.”

“That’s the problem with heat stroke, you know,” I say. “Your ability to judge the degree of damage is impaired by the damage you are doing.”

“That’s true. But!” My father is kicking around the deep end of the pool now, smiling big, pleased with his toughness. “But I have a way to know. Never fails. One thing tells me if I’ve pushed it past the limit out there.”

This man loves the buildup. He won’t tell me if I don’t ask. “Okay, Williams. What’s the one thing?”

He grabs the edge of the pool and stands up tall for effect. “It’s the stumble.”

---

Tee and I tried to move with care. We left the hardest issue for last – not the wisest choice, perhaps. At hour three on day two, we shined our torches on the question of college funding. Our emergency buckets were already dry. Emotion’s slow burn caught a bright wind. In an instant, we were popping and sparking. Righteous indignation, replaying old narratives, blaming, self-doubting. Higher and higher.  I was impulsive. Then I was confused. Tee was quiet. Then he was bitter.

In the ensuing conflagration I could not quiet my foolish tongue.  I cursed it even as it skewered Tee. We were still dancing around the topic at hand, but the words were losing their reference points, were turning to smoke and ash. The heat scorched the fertile earth we had tilled with care the day before.

Then I heard a sentence come out of my mouth I never imagined myself saying to someone I care about. It was hurtful and pointless, and I saw Tee lean away from the sting of it.

---

In the pool, I turn a lazy circle. “The stumble, huh?”

“Yep, the stumble. That’s when I know.”

---

Seeing the blow to Tee, my overheated brain licked at the door, threatening to spew words even more combustible than the ones before. On the other side, a tiny trickle of cool calm remained. It made itself known. It urged me to my feet. Even though Tee and I had driven in the same car to this public meeting place, even though we had intended to work through the weekend, that cool trickle called me to follow it. I collected my computer, packed away my half-eaten lunch, and stuffed my papers into my satchel. All of this I did while I continued to say things Tee does not need to hear from me, things about our marriage that have nothing to do with now. A fixation with ancient history compelled me to climb further in even as floor was giving way under me.

“I have to go,” I said, ungluing myself. Tears began to mix with the spill of blazing words. “I’m sorry to walk away from this, and I do want to keep at it, but right now, I am saying things you don’t deserve to hear.” I was still talking over my shoulder as I moved towards the exit, unable to stop my voice. “I have to cool down before I make it any worse.” Without a ride, I walked out into the 100 degree heat. I wandered for 30 minutes under the unrelenting sun until my mother found me and whisked me home.

---

My father has gotten hold of a frosty Sam Adams. As he bobs in the shallow end, he takes a swig. “It’s that stumble,” he goes on. “When I start tripping over my own feet going after the ball, I know something isn’t working right, and it’s time to get myself off that court.”

“Do you?”

“Hell yeah,” he says. “Every time.”

I doubt that. I smirk and shake my head. The blue ripples roll on past.

Aren’t the emotional embers hot enough on their own? Slipping and giving voice to the uglier side of the story only fuels the flames. Anyone foolish enough to believe firing anger at an ex will relieve the pressure learns soon enough. The blowback may be worse than the blaze.

The challenge lies in knowing when your judgment is impaired.  Gauges break under intense heat. The flood of responses burns out the circuitry. Until you stumble, until you actually see the hot earth speeding toward your face, you may not realize the danger you are in.

That’s when you calmly, firmly, set down the racket and walk off the court. Find yourself a tall glass of ice water, immerse yourself in the aquamarine. Cool your way back to your better self.

Ain't No River Wide Enough

If Wellies worked for hiking, perhaps tackling Little Devils Stairs two days after torrential rains wouldn't be an idiotic idea. The quiet parking lot on the east side of Shenandoah National Park only had two cars in it at 9am on a spring-ish morning. Could that have been a clue, Watson? Perhaps hikers with half a brain (or a healthy sense of self-preservation) were covering less treacherous trails.

As for me, I had to go for it. It isn't often this mama has no kid, clear skies, and enough energy to dive into the Appalachians. But even my determination was tested by repeated crossings over a swollen river. So much for my leisurely, rejuvenating day hike. Little Devils Stairs? Aptly named. Except for the "little" part.

Just 25 yards from the trailhead, I found myself on the bank of Keyser Run without a way across. Every stone and tree used by previous hikers to manage this daunting task had either been washed away or was submerged under a foot of rushing water.  After several adjustments to my position and a stern conversation with my spine, I made to the other side. Little did I know my victory was just a warmup. Little Devil Stairs is nothing more than a snaking hike up a steep creek gorge. Every time the trail crossed the river -- and it did so more than a dozen times -- I had to stop, assess, and concoct a way across. This meant tramping up and downstream at every juncture to compare downed trees, slick boulders, and water volume.

On several occasions, the only option was a narrow limb jutting out from a root-ball on one crumbling bank and balanced on the teetering rocks near the other. I am not usually prone to vertigo, but even I had to sit down on my rear and scootch most of the way across. This ridiculous sight of this tactic is one reason I prefer hiking alone.

At one of the more upright sections of the staircase, I found myself stranded in the middle of the river. The stone I had just slid from was clattering away downstream, and the bank was still five feet away. I squatted on a slick rock with white water roaring on both sides of me. A water-heavy log bobbed nearby. It seemed my best chance. I gritted my teeth and grappled with the monstrous thing until I got a grip. I hauled the log up against the current and pushed it into a more useful position. For some strange reason, gravity chose not to punish me for that moronic feat.

It was on about the ninth crossing when she finally decided to have her giggle at my expense. My foot punched right through a rotted log. Down I tumbled into the mud and frigid wet. Fortunately, my right shin bore the brunt of the fall. I was drenched to the calves but upright, and I gotta tell you, there's nothing that kicks a person past the momentary paralysis of a fall quite like coming to rest in ice water. It also turns out that having a quart of it stored in each boot makes navigating the rest of the crossings a bit easier. Only a bit. It's still incredibly difficult to make oneself step right into white, rushing water, no matter how wet the feet already are. This gal had some words for that river. Not ones I'd want any of my loved ones to overhear.

Having not hiked in any meaningful way since abandoning the Adirondacks, I had a small learning curve to navigate. Double-blazes mean a turn ahead. It took me a few baffled meanders into tangled underbrush to remember this. As each trail turn plunged me back down the river for yet another crossing, I quickly developed an unfortunate pavlovian response to the markers.  Poor river. She's probably still blushing from the fervor of my profanity.

With my legs a-shaking and my gumption well-tested only a couple miles into the hike, I came upon yet another double blaze. After a stream of invectives, I barreled on, only to discover the turn heading up and away from the river. I have never been so happy to see a switchback in my life.

For most of the rest of the hike, I slogged happily along muddy trails in my drenched leather, smartwool, and fleece. Synthetics preserved me from both chill and blisters until the sun came out to lend a hand. It turns out that with the right socks, wet boots are rather spongy and bouyant.

At a juncture with the fire road, I decided to give those low hills the old what-for. I took the extra loop and added another 2.3 miles onto the hike. It turns out I also added three more opportunities to re-experience my earlier delight. Taking the Piney Branch loop forced me to criss-cross an even wider tributary of Keyser Run. Despite my most damning vitriol, neither ferryman nor magic carpet appeared at my feet. I just had to tramp and shimmy and wobble my way to dry ground.

Which I somehow managed to do.

Four hours, 7.8 miles,  16-odd river crossings, only 3 other humans witnessed (one was a park ranger: "What, didja swim across?").

Wild? Check.
Solitude? Check.
The bruises to prove it? Check.