It's 98 degrees in the shade.
I'm on my hands and knees negotiating the end of a trail on a steep incline. Not in the shade. I'm flailing at dead branches and exposed root systems on my way by for balance and I've burned my left hand on a flat, hot rock. I also may be whimpering.
The Husband is seemingly everywhere; in front of me, behind me, holding out his hand and encouraging me to go on. He is not whimpering. Yet. Because when we get down from here...
It all started out friendly enough. A nice drive in the hills, after a jaunt into San Jose, where completely uncharacteristically, I'd decided that I simply must have chicken curry for lunch; which is exactly what you want in your stomach, still cooking, as you fight heat exhaustion and open hostility.
We had found ourselves at Uvas Reservoir, which is only a few miles from our house, but felt like the middle of the most rugged, off-the-grid kind of wilderness as I was scrambling to maintain footing and debating if I should just take off my clothes and be done with it; I don't care who is 100 yards away, fishing in the puddle below. You know it's hot when you don't even care that these are the the last set of frayed granny panties in the drawer because you were just too lazy to do one load of laundry. Yes, I'm wearing clean underwear, Mom. For now.
We had started out meandering down the boat launch, marveling at the water line so high above our heads now, as the drought wears on in Silicon Valley summer, and sheer size of the gargantuan pine cones. I'd made a note that I would grab one prickly prize on my way back to the car. We'd only be out here for a bit, because its so hot, and no one in their right mind would be out in this heat for...well, any reason, really.
"You're doing so great, Honey!" He exclaims with all the enthusiasm of a camp counselor to the fat kid, making futile attempts at the rock wall. Wait... I am that fat kid.
If he clapped his hands, it would have been so easy. Just one push.
"Lets just walk around it," He said. "It won't take too long, " He said.
Sweating in amounts almost enough to fill the reservoir, he is also gingerly trying to make his way down the trail, concentration etched on his face. I know he is hoping I don't see that.
In the back of my mind, I'm imaging us at the bottom of the parched bowl, broken; Family Guy-style. You know, when Peter falls down in a drunken stupor and his leg is kicked backward at an angle no leg should ever be, his arm hyper-extended at the elbow and x's for eyes.
I'm amazed at how he can practically pick me up and set me on the new trail above us. I begin to fret about his bad ankles and how easily he can twist and break one or maybe even both. Do I have enough battery charge on my phone if something happens and they have to haul us out of here? An hour before, I was happily snapping pictures of cracked earth and imagining composing the perfect Facebook post that would caution everyone to save water. Now, I just wanted to save our lives.
Just as we get acclimated to one trail, it drops off, and there is another above or below that we have to make our way to. It requires problem-solving skills that abandoned me a few trails back.
I'm also getting that really gross white film on my lips from exertion and no water. Yes, next time, there will be water. I can't believe I'm thinking there could be a next time, as I less than gracefully, slide down one of the last remaining hills on my ass. Did I mention that my flip-flops (Yes...I was wearing flip flops on this misadventure) alternately come off or fill with leaves and rocks. Keith is flinging his legs around, trying to empty his sandals as well.
I'm now almost violently refusing his helpful extended hands. Not because I'm angry; because I wasn't anymore, but because it's so hot. I can't stand any more contact. No doubt he is envisioning that he will look like Broken Peter... after we get out of here.
He's still encouraging me. "Look, Honey... see our car over there?" It looked like it was 5 miles away. A dot.
I must have begun walking very quickly.
"Sweetie, slow down! It's not a race."
Like Hell. But I wasn't in a race against him. I was in a race against the reservoir, against myself. I could suddenly see that what I used to think was just weird mentality of marathoners and triathletes. Yes, I actually imagined I was a triathlete. Never mind that my last Jumping Jack may very well have been in my sophomore year in high school. It was hot, I was tired. And probably beginning to hallucinate. Don't judge.
That last 5 miles (okay, maybe 1/4 mile) was a blur as the shirt I'd been wearing over a tank top and Keith had placed on my head to keep the direct sun off, was flung away. My mind laser sharp; my body, a well-crafted (stop laughing) machine focused on that one goal. The car (okay, maybe two goals) and air conditioning.
No one was more happy and surprised than I, when we finally made it back to the car, with me in the lead position. I won! Okay, so I might have been competing a little against Keith. In retrospect, I'm sure he was hanging back to make sure I didn't kill myself the last 50 yards.
In what looked like one motion, he unlocked, and opened the doors and turned the air conditioner up as high as it would go, and told me he would be right back. I assumed he had to file some paperwork at one of the nearby porta-potties.
I melted into the passenger seat and finally began to breathe with my mouth closed. I rested and waited, and just as I wondered if he might have passed out in a most undignified place, in a most undignified way, I saw him emerge up the boat launch from which this whole ordeal had begun. With not just one huge pine cone, but three. Gold, Silver and Bronze.
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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com. She is in training for her next triathlon; power sitting in the morning, power sitting in the afternoon and power sitting in the evening.
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