The oppressive heat of a Phoenix February flayed the back of neck. I felt beads of sweat gather under the brim of my hat. They cascaded down my eyebrows, pooled at my temples, and dribbled into my mouth. I tasted salt.
Ten minutes into my hike up Navajo Mt. and I was already feeling exhausted. The chicken burrito purchased and immediately inhaled twenty minutes prior was not giving me the needed energy. In fact, if I'm honest with myself (and you), the burrito gave me the worst gas imaginable. Floating to the top of the mountain was not merely theoretical at that point. I could have. However, I was weighed down. I had a stowaway on the hot-air balloon that was my body: Ada.
She was strapped to my back like a sand bag. The only way I could ascend was to release her, let her drop back to earth with a thud (bad image. sorry. really. sorry), and then I would magically float up on thermals in the thin desert air, rising to the apex of the 6,000ft peak. Vistas of strip malls (literally, thousands of strip malls) and ranch houses would array themselves into a beautiful fan across the desert plain, while rays of magenta, azure sun flashed behind the south range of the Arizona mountains. It would be a beautiful vision, in a weird Phoenix-is-probably-the-ugliest-city-outside-of-Florida kind of way.
But I'm a dad.
Ada couldn't fall.
Instead, I doubled down and got real serious about the hike--for the next 10 minutes. My legs were sturdy pillars of granite, full of rippling muscle and sinews. I must have done about 1000000 squats and lunges carrying Ada up the mountain pass. It was like I was on a gigantic step machine (you know, those dumb cardio machines) and the "added resistance" was my 17-pound, 10-month old daughter.
Her body was plastered to the back of my shirt. I arched my spine in such a way as to encourage some kind of draft between our bodies so that Ada wouldn't over heat. But that was hopeless. I knew her sweat was mixing with my sweat, while we congealed into some kind of daddy-daughter amoeba. Our bond grew stronger the hotter and more miserable we got.
Thankfully, Ada slept. She was not aware of how precarious of a situation I had put her in. First off, I have asthma. Anytime I go above (roughly) 5,000 feet, my breathing becomes labored and shallow. In essence, I feel sick and hungover. Ada doesn't know what being hung-over feels like yet, so that was a win for me. It was not a win, however, for my legs. The higher I went, the heavier they got. I noticed that the tread on the bottom of my merrell hiking boots began to clip the rough edges of the rocks that were strewn all over the path. I almost lost my balance. The only thing that kept Ada alive at this point were two aluminum hiking poles that had a unfortunate history of collapsing unexpectedly.
Oh yea, and did I mention that this was a mountain? Like a real mountain? There were drop-offs-- serious dropoffs--on both sides of the trail. There were also hundreds of hikers moving up and down along the side of the mountain. At times I felt as if I was a salmon swimming up stream against the flow, carrying my precious cargo. People passed and glanced at me. From the front, I looked like any other "outdoor-loving" white guy carrying a camelpak. But from the back, the reality was much more scornful: I was a white guy, carrying a young, sleeping baby on his back, up a mountain in 88 degree weather, wearing a giant, floppy sun hat (shade, right? For the baby...). Behind me there were women. They did not approve.
Rather abruptly, I informed Jamie that I had to go back down the mountain because "Ada was tired." That was a lie. Ada was indeed already sleeping. Her exhaustion was obvious to everyone. What wasn't obvious was that I felt like a complete dipshit. And as a man, I can't admit that, right?! My hiking partner, Paul (another man), also was feeling "tired"--although his tiredness stemmed from the fact that he had just eaten two beef tacos prior to our hike. We told "our" two women that they should go on without us. We acted as if we were making some kind of sacrifice to take care of "child." They both looked rather confused. It was obvious that neither one of them had any intention of not making it to the top. Nor were they tired. Both gave a curt "OK" and scampered up the trail like mountain goats.
Paul and I were left to assess the situation. I was terrified. Coming up was hard, going down would be worse. Horrifying images of me slipping on some talus and spilling Ada over the ravine flashed before my eyes. My only response to this image was "to go slow." As if that would control all the bad that COULD potentially happen: I'm feeling dizzy. I might fall. That's ok, "I'm going slow." Oops, I'm sliding on my butt. That's OK, "I'm sliding slow."
Slow I went. Paul held my hand at times. My legs shook as I descended back down to the parking lot. People coming up the mountain didn't realize that I was carrying a small child on my back, so on numerous occasions I was pushed to the edge. I couldn't stop them. They were on their post-work hike/run and were REALLY serious about it. I waited. Then moved on, grasping the hiking poles with all my strength.
Ada, meanwhile, still slept. At times, if the descent became rather precarious and I had to sit or kneel to get over a rock, she would stir, but would immediately fall back asleep. I was happy for that. Because, again, if Ada awoke and saw her situation, even her 10-month-old mind would realize that her father was a dipshit.
It's OK. Others behind me made it clear that they felt the same way.
And just as I was about 20 yards from my destination and safe on solid, flat ground, I saw an interesting sight before me. Unexpectedly, another small child was seen ascending the mountain, strapped to their sweaty father.
Supposedly he made it to the top. Jamie told me he did.
I don't believe it.
If he made, then I made it too.
