Honeymooning on the AT: 100 Miles in and Still Married

I closed my last post by pointing out that Rachel and I have now been honeymooning for two weeks, still the beginning of our adventure but longer than many couples get. On the occasion (and the occasion of a dry hotel room), I want to spend this post on my partner.

I’ve thought throughout the day about how to describe Rachel’s demeanor and our dynamic on this trip. Alive and kicking? Yes, in the sense of “passionate,” but not with the connotation of “slog.” Obliging? Again, yes, but without the sense of subservience. Tough? Definitely, but not in a detached, emotionless way.

More illuminating than any one word or phrase, I think, is the story of our first multi-day hike together.

The Hike That Started, and Almost Ended, it All

Around five years ago, I talked Rachel into hiking a portion of the Smoky Mountains with me (and by “talked into,” I mean she started shopping for gear the moment the suggestion left my mouth). We trained at Columbia’s ARC gym for months, rode our bicycles everywhere, and reserved precious vacation time.

We entered Great Smoky Mountains National Park from an unpaved road on North Carolina’s Cherokee Reservation. As mud splashed up the sides of my mom’s new, white Corolla, I started to worry: It was pouring, and the weatherman promised more. Worse, it was getting dark, and we’d scheduled six miles for the day, having expected to arrive around noon.

So, Rachel and I hiked our first miles together shivering, with water beading on our glasses while chasing our headlamps. Our packs not just seemingly but literally grew heavier as they soaked through.

When we arrived at our destination, the shelter was full and entirely asleep. Shame sent packing by our hunger, we hauled out our stove.

There was, as I unpacked our food, another problem: We didn’t have enough water to rehydrate our dinner. So I put out the stove and started trying to catch rainwater.

After catching enough, I impatiently cooked our rice and stirred in our tuna. It was after 10 p.m., three hours past “hiker midnight,” when we unrolled our bags.

Rachel, despite our tough night, soldiered on. So did the rain, unfortunately, running down the trails as if they were creeks.

Rachel and I both developed blisters. Her bunions began to hurt. She was carrying too much, and her Achilles tendons were barking.

On that trip, Rachel learned the PCT bear hang. She took over tent setup and breakdown duties. She tended both of our blisters, requiring frequent dressing changes on account of our wet feet.

After our three-day hike was over, Rachel and I drove to Cape Girardeau, where my parents lived in my childhood home. I was terrified, then shocked, then delighted as Rachel talked my ear off the on the way about the beauty we saw, people we met, and ways to do it better next time.

Each trip, we did more but better. We learned to start early, to wear liner socks, and to keep our packs light. Most importantly, we learned how to be productive and pleasant to each other in the most miserable of conditions. And I’m not sure there’s a much higher rung to be reached in a relationship, marriage or otherwise, than that.

More But Better

In the years since, Rachel and I have gone back to the Smokes. We’ve gone to Colorado and Montana, and to our own Missouri Ozarks, trying on different types of trips. We’ve done high altitude, cold weather, no cook, buggy, and just about every other adverse condition you could name (though we’ve never had rain quite like we did on that first Smokies trip).

Although every mile of our hike so far has been new to us, Rachel and I think of it as a sort of “greatest hits” compilation. Our challenges and wins have a rosy deja vu about them that I wasn’t aware I wanted in a honeymoon.

I don’t stress about setting up the tent in the rain, partially because Rachel leads that task but mostly because we’ve done it together so many times before. I don’t worry about the rice and tuna dinner not being “good enough” any more, because I know we can and will devour anything on the trail.

Spartan though our honeymoon may sound, it’s full of rhymes from our past. We simply have a little more perspective and security with which to enjoy them.

What’s Hard About Hiking Together

Not all of those moments of deja vu come from our hiking experiences. Rachel and I have rediscovered our old flame, Taco Bell. We’re sleeping on the ground, as we did in our first apartment together. We’re listening to Great Expectations on audiobook as we lay in the tent before falling asleep, after enjoying in years past reading Daniel Boone Regional Library’s One Read together.

I doubt Rachel would dispute or mind me saying we’ve had our quarrels on this trip (especially because she’s looking over my shoulder and not saying anything).

Sometimes, one of us (Bob) wants to press on to the next site, while the other (Rachel) wants to follow the plan. Occasionally, we’ll disagree over whether we really need a gear item. Most of the time, one or both of us is just hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.

We don’t always navigate those moments or their consequences gracefully. But we do always make up, lace up our boots, and walk on together, as we’ve done for more than a decade now.

I can’t describe how beautiful I find that. I’m relieved and overjoyed that, to Rachel, I do not need to.