My Hiking Partner Said My Bad Knee Needed Easier Trails—Except There Was Nothing Wrong With My Knee
PART 3
At dinner, Joanne sat across from me as if table width counted as conflict management.
Nobody else knew we were fighting, which gave the whole meal a ridiculous normality. Benita passed cornbread. Somebody named Walt complained that the lodge coffee tasted like it had been filtered through a brown sock. Priya told a story about getting lost on a trail so flat she could see the parking lot for half of it.
Joanne asked me if I wanted butter.
I said no with the severity of a woman refusing an international treaty.
Afterward we stepped outside.
The rain had slowed to mist. A line of maples behind the lodge had gone orange at the tops.
Joanne said, “I’m sorry.”
“That is an excellent beginning.”
“I should have told you.”
“You should not have invented a knee problem.”
“I know.”
“You told people I couldn’t do routes I specifically registered to do.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You told trip leaders to put us on easier trails.”
“For both of us.”
“Using my body as the reason.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Joanne looked toward the lodge windows.
“Can we walk?”
I almost said no just because she had asked.
Instead we took the gravel path behind the building. It circled a pond, barely half a mile, the sort of evening loop we usually walked after a full hiking day because our legs liked being reminded who was in charge.
Joanne moved more slowly than I expected.
At first I thought I was imagining it because of what Benita had told me. Then the path tilted upward for perhaps forty yards and Joanne shortened her stride.
I matched her without comment.
That bothered me too.
“So?” I said when we reached level ground.
She exhaled. “It started in May.”
“With my imaginary knee.”
“With me not wanting to do the wildflower ridge.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
“I did say I thought the valley trail sounded nice.”
“You said either was fine.”
“Because either was fine.”
“No. One was apparently not fine enough for you to choose it honestly.”
She stopped beside a bench.
A small wooden sign identified the pond as Mallard Pond, although there was not a duck in sight.
“I was tired,” she said.
“Everyone gets tired.”
“That response is part of the problem.”
I stared at her.
“What response?”
“Everyone gets tired. We can still do it. We’ve done harder. We’re not eighty.”
I recognized all four sentences because I had said versions of them.
“Are you telling me I made you lie about my knee?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I am telling you I knew exactly what you would say if I said I wanted the shorter trail.”
“You didn’t give me the chance.”
“I know.”
We started walking again.
Joanne’s voice was quieter. “In May, I asked if we could do the valley. You said the ridge was the whole reason to go.”
“It was the best route.”
“To you.”
“Yes. To me. That is generally how preferences work.”
She almost smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
“The trip leader asked why we were switching after we had both marked ridge. I said your knee had been bothering you.”
“So casually.”
“I panicked.”
“And then you panicked again in August?”
She winced.
“I know how bad that sounds.”
“Good.”
Back at the lodge, Priya was standing under the awning stretching one calf against a post.
She looked at us. “You two doing the lake tomorrow?”
“No,” I said.
Joanne said, “Probably.”
We spoke at the same time.
Priya raised one eyebrow.
I said, “I’m doing the ridge.”
“Oh. Good. I thought your knee kept you off steep stuff.”
Joanne closed her eyes.
I turned slowly toward her.
Priya looked between us.
“Apparently,” I said, “my knee has a reputation.”
“I’m sorry. I assumed—”
“Not your fault.”
That phrase came out too fast, but it was true.
Priya went inside.
I faced Joanne.
“She knew too?”
“Benita may have mentioned route planning.”
“Or you did.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That is convenient.”
“Amy, I’m not trying to make you look weak.”
“No. You are making me look weak so you don’t have to look different.”
Her face changed.
The word had landed.
Different.
Not injured. Not incapable.
Different from me.
For years our friendship had contained a small, stupid pride in how easily we matched. Same walking pace. Same appetite for long days. Same willingness to take the extra overlook even when the parking lot was visible and sensible people had stopped.
People in the club referred to us as a pair.
Amy and Joanne.
Bring Amy and Joanne on the long loop.
Amy and Joanne will know the trail.
Amy and Joanne are still out there somewhere taking pictures of rocks.
I had enjoyed that identity.
Maybe more than I had noticed.
Joanne looked at the red route card sticking out of my jacket pocket.
“I never wanted people to think you couldn’t do the ridge.”
“They did.”
“I wanted them to let us stay together on the easier route without making me explain.”
“Explain what?”
She opened her mouth.
Then she said, “That I was having a rough few months.”
It was not an answer, exactly.
I was too angry to notice.
