The Walk
The forest engulfed them, a ragged group smelling of sweat and smoke and chagrin. Dense foliage curtained their view with ferns, branches, poison ivy, and other vines, so that five steps forward the view was always utterly new, a kaleidoscope of moss-green and bluish-brown and every shade in between. A smudge of red lit through the trees, carried on wings of black and white, and clung to a trunk where it knocked like a persistent neighbor, and on they walked.
Feet got sore and moods soured as the teenagers began to grasp (with dawning horror) exactly what they’d signed themselves up for, and still they walked. The leaders taught them games to play down the line, and though they rolled their eyes, (breathless) they didn’t scoff. They played the games, praying distraction from the pain, and sort-of (a little) it did. Suffering builds endurance, and endurance builds character, the leaders told them. Privately, each student cursed the adult in charge, or whichever nefarious parent tricked them to come.
Still, they walked.
Then it rained, and they walked.
Then it thundered, and they crouched under enormous backpacks, grounding themselves with rubber boots in case lightning should strike. They spread out far so they could not talk, though still connected as drops pattered down their shins. Then the rain stopped, and it was wet, and they walked, and (to their individual surprise) they smiled, because look at them, walking through a storm. Not even thunder could stop them. Perhaps there was some strange tie between pain and persistence, a rugged knot where weathered integrity tangled.
They never knew their bodies were so strong or could hold so much. Their limits were far-off things they had not reached yet, an insect darting ahead, landing on tall stems and flittering away just as they drew close enough to see the black and orange in its small wings. Their legs kept moving and, right now, nothing else really mattered. Not the lives they led at home, the grudges, regrets, worries, or uncertainties, just the walking, and only the walk, and maybe the blisters from boots and wet socks.
Through streams they walked, and it was hard, and some cried, and the heavy bags chafed on young hips and shoulders, and they sprayed new layers of bug repellent, though really the body stench should have been enough at that point. Electrolytes seeped from their skin, crusting every surface and limb. They drank water and ate snacks high in protein, sugar, and salt. Plunked on roots and rocks they crunched trail mix, slurped tuna from a can, and savored the freshness of apples as they never had in their high school cafeterias when perched on clean plastic stools. It was all to keep them going so they could walk, so they could see what they could see in another five steps, which was always different.
And then the sun lowered, and they kept walking because they had to find the campsite, and when they found it, their feet hurt too much to stand. They lowered to the ground and were grateful (so grateful) to simply be still that they stayed there, legs curled, arms dangling, like beetles on their backs that couldn’t get up.
Then they unclipped their bags and everything was sore and hurt as if they were still walking, though they weren’t anymore. How strange, they thought, to be in pain and proud of it, like a trophy, the evidence of some great accomplishment.
They unlaced boots, cracking apart fibers nearly glued together with mud and water and tension from miles and miles, and it hurt more to take their feet out of their boots than simply leave them there, swollen, but the relief, oh the relief, when they were freed.
They put on clean socks and light camp shoes and set out their boots and socks to dry. Another pair left (without being asked) to pump clean water from a nearby stream, others got the dinner cooking, and before long they were sitting in a circle, on logs, filling plastic bowls with rice and beans and sausage cooked over a campfire, and they no longer cared there was probably dirt in the dinner and the spoons weren’t clean. Food had never tasted so good; company had never been so easy. After all, they had sweat together, prevailed together, and dug holes in the ground for private moments (always not together). The students, just starting to know the weight of the world and the varied possibilities of what could be, had never been so relaxed, though everything was stiff and covered in layers of grime and salt.
No, everything was perfect, all that existed was now, the suffering was behind them, the endurance begun, and in the unspoken gaps, the shadows of character were glimpsed. If, in these early years, when everything was raw and all too real, if they could survive this, perhaps they could keep on. Perhaps they could outlast other daunting tasks, for views always utterly new, if only they just walked on
.