My Hiking Partner Said My Bad Knee Needed Easier Trails—Except There Was Nothing Wrong With My Knee
PART 4
Saturday morning arrived bright and cold, the rain washed out of the sky.
At breakfast, I chose the ridge route before I had decided whether I wanted the hike or the evidence.
That distinction became uncomfortable around mile two.
The trail climbed through wet oak leaves, then crossed a narrow wooden bridge over a creek swollen from the storm. Priya was in the ridge group, along with Benita and six others. Nobody treated me like a medical experiment.
I made sure they had no reason to.
That was the first mistake.
I moved quickly on the initial climb, staying near the front because some primitive part of me wanted witnesses. If my knee bent perfectly through four miles and twelve hundred feet of elevation, perhaps everyone’s memory of Joanne’s story would evaporate.
At the first overlook, Benita called for a water break.
Marcus, a quiet accountant from the north side, dropped his pack and announced that his lungs had filed a grievance. Nobody laughed at him for being tired. Two people sat immediately. Priya passed around dried apricots. Benita checked the sky.
The entire group behaved as if pauses were part of hiking.
I was the only person turning them into character evidence.
“I’m good,” I said.
Priya unscrewed her bottle.
“That was not a question.”
I laughed despite myself.
“I know.”
“Then drink.”
I did.
Below us, the valley was still holding pockets of morning fog.
The view was worth stopping for.
That irritated me.
I had spent half the climb proving that stopping was unnecessary.
Priya leaned against the railing.
“For what it’s worth, nobody in this club gets younger because they refuse a bench.”
“I am aware.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face has been difficult since childhood.”
She accepted that.
We kept moving.
Around mile four, the ridge narrowed and the trail became rocky. My breathing deepened. My thighs burned. My left boot slipped once on wet stone and I caught myself with a trekking pole.
My knees remained beautifully boring.
Still, by the time we reached the high point, I was tired.
Not damaged. Not defeated.
Tired.
The word sat badly beside all the arguments I had made with Joanne.
Everyone gets tired.
We can still do it.
We’ve done harder.
We’re not eighty.
Priya was eating a peanut-butter sandwich on a flat rock.
I sat beside her.
“You always hike this fast?” she asked.
“I used to.”
“That was not what I asked.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged. “I’m seventy-one. I have limited patience for indirect questions.”
I laughed.
“No. Not always.”
“Good. I was about to feel personally inconvenienced.”
We ate without talking.
The trail back descended gradually through birch trees. I stopped twice to take pictures. Nobody accused me of surrendering to age.
Halfway down, Priya paused at a patch of red mushrooms.
“Joanne likes these,” I said automatically.
“Then send her a picture.”
I did.
Joanne responded almost immediately.
Pretty. Lake loop is gorgeous too. Saw a heron.
I stared at the message.
No apology. No defense. No attempt to pretend she wished she were on the ridge.
Just a heron.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
At the lodge, the lake group returned forty minutes before us. I noticed their boots lined beside the porch—muddy, ordinary, no less legitimate because they had covered fewer miles. Somebody had set three wet rain shells over the railing. A woman I barely knew was showing Joanne a photograph of a woodpecker.
Joanne was sitting on the porch with coffee, talking to a man named Ed about a beaver lodge they had seen.
She looked happy.
That was harder to absorb than if she had looked embarrassed.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Good.”
“Your knee survive?”
She meant it as self-mockery.
I did not laugh.
Her smile fell.
“Sorry.”
“The ridge was good.”
“Did you get the overlook?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
I wanted her to ask whether it had been hard.
I wanted to say no.
Instead I heard Priya’s question.
You always hike this fast?
I sat in the chair beside Joanne.
“My legs are tired.”
She glanced at me.
“Okay.”
“That is all.”
“Okay.”
“You can stop looking nervous.”
“I’m working on it.”
I stretched my feet toward the porch rail.
A group came through the lobby carrying wet poles. Someone said the falls trail had been muddier than expected.
Joanne said, “The lake loop was nice.”
“You already said that.”
“I liked having time to stop.”
There was no apology in her voice.
I could have turned the sentence into evidence against her.
Instead I asked, “How many times did you stop?”
She smiled carefully.
“A lot.”
“Did the world end?”
“Not locally.”
That got me.
I laughed.
Then Joanne said, “I really am sorry, Amy.”
“I know.”
“I was embarrassed.”
“About being slower?”
“About wanting to be slower.”
The wording caught me.
“Those are not the same thing.”
“No.”
She wrapped both hands around the coffee mug.
“I kept thinking if I got enough rest or trained harder, I’d want the old kind of hike again.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.”
At that moment I believed the uncertainty was temporary.
I thought we were discussing fitness.
The harder truth was still waiting.
