Chacos on the Ground-30 years, 6 months, 4 days in.

This day, it looked like:
Me, navigating paper maps for days since National Parks are fantastic for unplugging, and
Doug trusting me when I tell him to turn left at any moment or take the turn that doesn’t seem to make sense according to signs.
Me, making sandwiches earlier in the day, giving Doug pulled pork because he likes it better than I do, and I like PB&J just fine.
Doug, carrying the backpack with our picnic lunch and two water bottles for the entire length of the hike.
Me, as I plop down next to him perched on a boulder overlooking Somes Sound, saying, “You might need to help me up!”
Doug, answering back, “Now, and always.”
Me, showing which bend to take in the multi-forked path after studying all the routes and signs before we began.
Doug, offering me a hand of support for those above-knee-too-high-steps-for-my-(maybe? God, please not arthritic)-hips steps time and again
(honestly, it happened way more times than I care to count or admit).
Me, reminding him to stop and look at the view more than he would tend to do because he loves to, but can forget to pause sometimes.
Doug, forging ahead on the path only a little farther than me, intentionally at that distance,
to both keep an eye out for me and to show me practical steps I could take where I won’t fall.
Me, having researched which path will bring the least amount of apprehension to him who
has a healthy fear of steeply descending declines with no ladder rungs or metal hand grips.
Doug, turning at my startled yell to see me slip off a rock’s edge to (thankfully only) fall 4 feet
and land inches away from a pointed rock, helping me up and then kindly kissing my scraped arm and hand better.
Me, a bit later as I hiked, singing softly to myself (and realizing I mean the words I remember)
a 1963 song, “I Will Follow Him,” that my dad often played while shooting pool downstairs.
Doug, seeing me tire and slow down more after the fall, slows down his natural pace so I won’t lag too far behind.
Me, telling Doug a memory
(“During the summer we first worked at Hayo-Went-Ha, I needed to get recertified in lifeguarding. Three of the waterfront guys taught the Arbutus women and me what we needed to take the test. They all were younger and leaner, and somehow I was a stronger swimmer, and I liked being physically strong. I was and have been confident that I could climb, hike, and swim for long periods of time…)
which connects to truth in this moment
(“…and I have realized I have always liked being strong…and today my body isn’t doing what it used to do, and I feel weak. I fear I am slowing you down, and I don’t like this…”)
Me, tears flowing next, and
Doug, coming close to me, gently smooches them away.
We, much later, fist-bumping in celebration when we make it back to the Jeep.
We, laughing at ourselves for wanting ibuprofen more at that moment than the Maine blueberry homemade pie we bought earlier at a roadside stand.
We, will continue hiking, pushing, growing, working, encouraging, reassuring, examining, exploring, seeking God’s will
all the while still
committed and loving
as long as we both shall live.