What's In Your Backpack?

At Mile Marker 9,950...

I carry a backpack.  Always.

The hike to Hawksbill Summit is no different.

As an amputee, I learned early on that backpacks were the way to go.  

Carrying anything while walking was a challenge.  I could do more, handle more, be more when I shouldered the weight squarely on my back.  

With a backpack, I returned to work.  Walked around the city on my own.

Lugged laundry down the basement stairs.

I believed that if I could just CARRY everything, I'd be able to balance whatever life handed me.  

It's like I always carried HOPE in the front pocket of the bag.

But there's something else about backpacks too...

For better or worse,
they can always fit just ONE more thing.

What's in your backpack these days?  

It's been a heavy year and a half -- to say the least.

I keep thinking of that scene from Jaws.

You know the one -- where the sheriff is in the back of the boat, and he first sets sight on the shark.  He's overwhelmed by its immensity.  

So he runs to his crew and delivers that famous line:

"We're gonna need a bigger... backpack."

(You saw that coming, right?)

2020, 2021... fate just keeps handing us things.  

They come fast and furious.  

We struggle under the weight of each one.  But eventually we grasp hold of it and tuck it inside our backpack. 

Some things fall so far to the bottom, we forget they existed at all.

Hey, remember murder hornets? 

At Mile 9,950, my friends and I take a weekend trip to Shenandoah National Park.

I plod along the trail -- alternating feet and trekking poles -- through the forest.  

This hike is listed as "easy,"
but you know how that goes.

With Jasmine in front of me and Mary behind me, we make our way up the park's highest peak, Hawksbill Mountain.

I inhale the autumn air.  Watch the sun burst through the trees.

We point out the smallest things...

The call and response of crickets.

Fungus on tree bark.

A heart-shaped leaf.

Sure, I think about COVID, and my prosthesis, and if I'm about to have stomach pain.  I think about avoiding tree roots and rocks, and whether I brought enough water.  I think about the uphill climb.  And, of course, I think about everything going on at home. 

But I try -- just for this mile -- to focus on one peaceful moment in our turbulent world.

I started this post more than 80 miles ago.  

Long before fall foliage.
Long before this hike.

It drifted into my mind through the open car windows, as I drove to see someone I love.  

Someone who's dealing with a difficult illness. 

And I was thinking how unfair it all is -- that the weight of suffering falls on someone who is always there for the rest of us.

And how powerless we are to take it off their shoulders.  Even for a few steps.  

We can't carry it for them, no matter how much we love them.

More miles passed.  

Then someone else I love -- many "someones" actually -- were dealt a trauma that put their backpacks on overload.

These "someones" cared for me, and carried me, when my own backpack threatened to take me down.

I thought their backpacks could hold anything.

"Come on," I want to shout.  "Aren't our backpacks full enough?!"

Spoiler alert:  I don't quite make it to the summit.

It seems like I will...

Then, just past this sign, there's a hill of granite boulders stacked like a jagged stairway to the sky. 

I'm ready.  
I'm game.  
I take that first step.

And though I'm supposedly a world-class paraclimber, at that exact moment, I feel the hiss of air seep into my prosthetic socket.  It only takes a split-second.

My leg comes unsealed.  Right there on the mountainside.

It's okay.  The view is good enough from here.

(Jasmine races up the boulders to snap this pic.)

Honestly I'm so busy keeping my leg on, I hardly look around at all.

After a few minutes, we hike down to find a handy shelter.

Just right for leg adjustments!

And miraculously (or not), when I unzip my backpack, everything I need is waiting inside.

This mile goes out to all those "someones" I love.  

(And if your backpack is too heavy, then it's for you too.) 

We're in this together.

If your backpack gets so full that the zipper tears, I'll remind you of its strength.

If it weighs so much that the bottom gives out, I'll be there to pick up the pieces.

If HOPE falls to the bottom of the bag, I'll help you find it again.

What you've given to me, I'll give back to you a thousand times.

I wish I could carry that backpack for you.

But when I can't, I'll walk with you anyway.

(You can even use my trekking poles.)

Every step. Every mile.

Always.

xo

Rebecca