One More Step To You

Nightfall on the Trail

I was feeling a lot better in the late afternoon; the trail growing less of a steep incline here, the ground smooth, packed down over many years of hiking boots traveling through this section. My breathing was more controlled, coming out in measured exhales; my calves were burning, and there was a little pain, but it wasn't unmanageable. Sarah and I were still keeping pace with each other, and I was surprised I was able to stay in line with her with little effort. I was glad she was here. She was easy to talk to, reminding me a little of my sister.

"My husband, Aaron, is a nurse," Sarah chatted. Her face was flushed from the hike, her eyes bright. "Long hours, long days away from the family, so he's really looking forward to this time with the kids."

"The sounds like a lot," I commented, stepping over a root that had stretched itself from one side of the trail to the other. "How is he managing work and the kids?" I asked. I had experience trying to balance exactly that when Julie had gotten sick, and the truth was, I hadn't managed it very well. I had hardly slept, hardly eaten at first, trying to do everything myself, picking up all the pieces Julie could no longer juggle.

"Aaron's taking a year off, actually, so he can be there with the kids, and so we can spend time together as a family once I get back."

"That's expensive," I blurted without thinking, and gave her a sheepish expression, "Sorry, I said that without thinking. Your finances are none of my concern."

"It's okay, it is expensive," Sarah laughed, unfazed by my bluntness. "We saved up for two years so I could do this. I honestly thought Aaron would think I was crazy, but he was on board right away. We put together a budget that night, and he helped me figure out everything we needed to do to get to this point right now." Sarah turned her face to me, and she was beaming, her feelings for her husband evident in the way she spoke about him.

"He sounds amazing," I told her honestly. I knew husbands that weren't worth the air they breathed. Rodger, Julie's husband, left two months after her diagnosis. When the chemo was making her sick, she hardly wanted to move or get out of bed.

"He is." She said happily, and we both grinned at each other.

We came around a bend, and the world opened up before us, the right side of the trail's trees giving way to a view of tall mountain peaks. I had seen mountains before, having grown up in the Pacific North West, but that didn't diminish the beauty in front of me. Nature was wild and unruly, and seeing the vastness of it made me feel small in a way that felt inspiring.

We had been hiking for five hours now, and despite how small that was compared to what lay ahead of us, I was feeling good. I pulled my water bottle from where it hung on my backpack and took a long drink, my eyes drifting to where Jason was at the front of our group, his powerful legs carrying him easily up the steep hill ahead of us. My eyes wandered the length of his body, from his dirty blond hair, slick with sweat, to his muscular calves, and felt my cheeks heat. I rolled my eyes at myself. We were definitely not into cocky, dismissive men.

A pair moved to pass us, and I stepped up my pace, afraid I was holding people up, but Sarah touched my arm, shaking her head. "Let them pass. We're keeping a good hiking pace. Even with them ahead of us, we're still middle of the pack, and it wouldn't matter if we were at the back. We're doing great."

I blinked at her for a moment, unsure, but then allowed myself to fall back into step with her, nodding. "I guess... I feel like I have something to prove." I mumbled, embarrassed.

"You don't have anything to prove," Sarah said, touching my arm.

I could feel her eyes on me, feel the blood rush to my face, feel the heat in my cheeks. It was so easy for her to say that, I thought, she looked like she belonged here. She was glowing, and I felt hot and sweaty and dirty. I gave a quick nod, not looking at her. Sometimes, it's hard not to listen to the little voice in your head that says you're not good enough.