It happens the minute we turn around. Once we decide that it's okay to not meet our goal today, our tears dry up, our legs can not only move, they can help us run. It is the test of who we are as people, and we failed, every last one of us.
1. Backpackers don't cry.
"It's too hard for them."
2. We separate, walk the path alone or in pairs.
"No. They did great."
3. We leave our shoes on the road thinking they'd be there when we returned.
"I fine," she says as she walks past her shoes. The cheese crackers and going home to mama are the two best things she has heard all week. When she has food and her mama, she's okay.
I tell her, "The hard part of backpacking is how you deal with life is how you deal with the trail. When it's hard, like it was today with deer flies biting Mia's head and a push down a road where you were worried that Mia was being killed by 200 ants, when it's hard like that you may not always be your kindest and most considerate self. I know I'm not."
Today I am grateful to return home, to understand more, and to have a trail bond with some kids.
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