Long Trail Logs #6: A Death Doula’s Thoughts on Ritual and Receivership

August 7, day 6

An unexpected surprise

Every step down those stupid stone stairs made one thing terribly clear: my leg hadn’t gotten better.

Panic rose in my throat and I struggled to swallow it, trying to stay buried in denial. I slathered my leg with all sorts of KT tape setups and shouldered my backpack. «Come on.»

My leg was suspiciously calm during the climb up the last wooded stretch of trail before the trees gave way to open sky and grassy countryside, blowing in from the mist swirling around the top of Bromley Mountain.

But the descent to Mad Tom Notch Road was steep and unforgiving. I grit my teeth as pain radiated from my trembling quadriceps to the rest of my hip. As the notch opened onto a gravel parking lot, I caught a glimpse of a pickup truck with its bed lowered. There was an orange flash through the leaves that looked like Ambler’s umbrella.

There is no way….Is it really? I was afraid to get my hopes up.

But then a hiker turned, Ambler, and motioned for us to come closer. Trail magic! The first on the Long Road.

A man was lying in a lawn chair next to a truck. He introduced himself as Fart in a Windstorm and told us to help ourselves. He handed me a package of wet wipes with a wry smile. «My son was an AT thru hiker. I know what people smell like and what they turn to for basic hygiene. Like getting clean.» I smiled, embarrassed (he was right about my dangerously low supply of toilet paper), but accepted the package of tissues gratefully. I was very happy to receive food; the cupcakes, sweets and snacks were a much-needed morale boost.

one last shot

The sugar rush carried me through the grueling climb up Styles Peak, helping me grin and bear it as we left Styles and then crawled up Peru Peak. Descending down the backside of Peru felt less like a hike and more like falling down the mountain; I planted my trekking poles as crutches as I limped down the brutal drop.

By the time I limped to the shelter on the right on Trail, smiling and bearing it had been deleted. I was too angry and in pain to notice the beauty of this shelter situated right above a roaring river.

«Ah!» Chris exclaimed like a child, his golden retriever nature emerging once again, “It’s so cute!

When he said something innocuous about delaying lunch for another hour, I almost bit his head off. He blinked in surprise and confusion. “I’ll get some water,” he said quietly, picking up our two water containers and disappearing towards the river.

While he was gone, I tried to compose myself, opening the bag of beef stew that Tom had given us that night. After it cooled to a tolerable temperature, I took it down as quickly as I could, trying to eliminate the perch as the reason for my temper. But the biggest problem still remained. When Chris returned, I was crying pathetically into my stew.

I wanted to do this hike so badly that it hurt. We had given up our trip last year for this one opportunity. And now here I was and I got hurt. a damn profit and he was about to run us off the road.

«I know,» Chris said, his voice a soothing balm.

I hadn’t realized I had been moaning out loud. «I want to do this walk. I want to do this with you. Damn!

It was silent for a few minutes. “Let me carry your backpack for today.”

My head snapped up to meet his unwavering gaze. “Absolutely No.»

He raised an eyebrow, a clear challenge. “Absolutely Yes. Everything will be fine. When I was getting water, I checked the elevation on FarOut. It’s stupidly easy for the rest of the day. I can carry both of our backpacks without problems.”

I withered, curling inward. «But…»

«Hey. Shut up. And let me do this for you. For us.» His arm slipped around my shoulder, pulling me closer. «If this doesn’t work, if unloading the leg during the day doesn’t improve it at all, we can see what to do next. But for today, let’s try it. It won’t hurt.»

I choked again, suddenly unable to swallow. «Well.»

Him taking my backpack felt less like a gift and more like a humiliation. Even after almost three years together, receiving was still difficult, as he struggled to unlearn old patterns that insisted he had to act out of love. I clenched my jaw, vowing to make the most of Chris’s offer. I reinforced my leg a lot, switching my knee pad to the offending left leg, adjusting it so it was off my knee and hugged my mid-thigh. The problem wasn’t my knee this time, I reasoned, but I hoped the brace would give my sad quads the support they needed.

Chris shouldered his backpack, then mine, placing it in front of his chest. He smiled and made a pose, stating that it was not heavy. I didn’t believe him at all, but it’s true that going for a walk made me feel better without the extra weight. I breathed a small sigh of relief and walked the rest of the afternoon without problems.

Take on burdens

As the sun fell at golden hour, the only difficult part of the day was Baker Peak, a short but spicy climb that ended with a series of jagged rocks piled up on a ridge. Chris refused to let me take my backpack, even for this dangerous fight. First I ran across the rock field, then turned to watch him negotiate the sharp ankle breakers, holding my breath the entire time.

Once across, we drove the last few miles to Big Branch Shelter, stopping at what was clearly an abandoned stealth camp next to a wide, calm river.

«Wow,» Chris breathed, looking up at the canopy of trees, the makeshift fire ring, the river just steps away from camp. «I wouldn’t be opposed to staying here.»

I nodded and then thought about the outhouse and bear box waiting for us at Big Branch.

«Should we check the shelter?»

Chris didn’t respond, having stopped FarOut. “The reviews say camping there kind of sucks,” he said.

I didn’t like the idea of ​​walking an extra mile only to turn around and come back if the shelter wasn’t ideal. I hesitated, torn.

Suddenly, Chris smiled. «It’s only half a mile away. I’ll run down and check it out if you keep the backpacks.»

“Shake? Aren’t you tired? Should I go?

«Not both,» he said easily, taking off both backpacks. They landed with loud noises at their feet. «We’ve gone almost 15 miles today. You need to rest your leg. Stay here. Bye!» he sang, fleeing before he could argue.

I shook my head sadly, but couldn’t help but feel warmer as I sat on the floor, waiting. I touched my leg, which had stopped offering its sharpest protests, finally completely silent. I hadn’t hurt since the shelter at lunchtime – since Chris took my backpack. The truth was etched into my bones: He may have single-handedly saved our walk by carrying my burden. My eyes glazed over, but I quickly dried them when I saw the outline of Chris returning to me in the dim light.

A ritual of love

In fact, the tent sucked. “This place is much better,” he insisted. I set up camp while he collected tinder that had been soaked from the previous night’s rain and formed a sad heap. After struggling to light the soggy tinder, it occurred to him that our stoves were little flamethrowers. He pointed the stove at the wood and turned the fuel knob all the way until the wood gave way and ignited. I tended the fire while he bathed in the river. I watched him, so precious to me, sitting against the rocks, his pale, shirtless back contrasting sharply with the growing shadows of the rocks.

Today was the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. He had arrived in the middle of the chaos of this afternoon; He had come and gone, and I hadn’t been able to honor him with anything: not candles, not a prayer, not even sharing a single story. I tried to scribble a letter about my grandfather that I intended to read aloud to Chris, but abandoned it in my tracking journal because the letter felt forced.

As a death doula, I felt like a failure, a fraud, for helping my clients design meaningful rituals to honor the lives of their loved ones while at the same time being unable to honor my own.

As a teenager, I observed the infinite love my grandfather had for my grandmother. «She is my queen!» he would declare to anyone within earshot. He was almost jealous of their dynamic, believing he could never receive something so pure.

But with Chris I did. With him I received something that I had never expected, had never dreamed would be mine: a love that floored me every day with its tenderness and devotion. A love that delighted in saying, “Let me carry your burden today.” without expecting anything in return.

All this time I thought I was not honoring my grandfather. But as I looked at my beloved in the river, I knew: By accepting help from the man who loved me like my grandfather loved my grandmother, today was an offering, a living, breathing ritual for the one who showed me what love was capable of.

When Chris dried himself again by the fire, I named him the anniversary.

He nodded as we both looked at the flames. «I never met him,» he said, a huge, painful reminder of what could never change, «but from what you’ve told me about him, I know he would be proud of you. He would be proud of your doula work. He would be proud of everything you’ve done.»

In the gathering darkness, I smiled and the fire warmed my face. And I dared to believe that he was right.