Free Called Again by Jennifer Pharr Davis, Pharr Davis

expecting; and I interpreted it as a divine miracle. But it also proved to be a curse. Now that the door of possibility cracked open to reveal a glimmer of light, the thought of going back to the trail consumed me.
    After that discussion, I thought about the record every single day. I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t talk about it, but when things were silent and I started to daydream, my thoughts would alwaysdrift toward the trail. But it wasn’t quite time to make a final decision. Not yet.
    Instead, I agreed with Brew that we should enjoy another summer hiking side by side in Europe. Then, after more time and more miles had passed, we would revisit the A.T. discussion.

    When Brew and I went to Europe, we began our hiking extravaganza on a long-distance trail in Corsica called the GR20. It was one of the most beautiful and difficult routes I had ever been on. I loved being on a trail again and I embraced the degree of difficulty, but Brew was not expecting the strenuous climbs.
    Even worse, somewhere amid his planning, there was a discrepancy in the mileage, and after our second day of hiking we found that the GR20 was actually longer than we had anticipated. That meant we had to average close to twenty miles a day to finish on time. And that was not Brew’s style of backpacking.
    Midway through the trip, when we arrived at a rural campground that marked our one resupply stop, we were dismayed to discover a sparse pantry with only a few boxes of crackers, some cookies, and a stick of cured salami. We bought almost all the provisions they had, but I was still worried that it wouldn’t be enough to keep us fed. Even if there had been more food, we would have been at a loss because we were out of euros, the store did not accept credit cards, and there wasn’t an ATM in the town.
    After our resupply, I visited the facilities and savored the only shower stall that we would encounter during our week-long trek. The narrow closet where I bathed was covered in mold and built for petite Europeans. My six-foot frame banged against the walls whenever I reached for shampoo or bent to pick up the soap. But I didn’t care. It was still a shower.
    When I was finished, so was the warm water. Without meaning to, I had left Brew nothing but an icy stream. I felt horrible, but there wasn’t anything I could do to make it better. Instead, I continued to do chores like rinse out our clothes at a nearby water pump. After wringing out our shirts, shorts, and socks, I hung them on a fence and walked back to our tent. I could hear sniffling coming from inside the thin Silnylon walls.
    I crawled into the shelter and started rubbing Brew’s back. I knew what was wrong—”everything,” according to my husband—but I asked anyway.
    â€œHoney, what is it?”
    â€œThis is not how I thought it would be. My shower was freezing because you took all the warm water. I’m uncomfortable, our clothes are still dirty and now they’re wet, my legs and crotch are chafing so badly that I can hardly walk, and I screwed up planning this hike.”
    â€œIt’ll be okay. Things will get better. We’ll still be able to finish.”
    â€œYou don’t understand.”
    â€œWhat don’t I understand?”
    â€œThis is still your thing. Not mine. I like the idea of backpacking, but I don’t like doing it all day, every day. I want the views without so much hard work. I want the memories without feeling dirty and tired all the time. I want hot food and time to read books and take naps.” Then Brew paused to wipe away the gleaming river of snot that was running through his beard. He looked up at me, and I could see the tears welling up in his eyes again. He put his hands over his face and declared, “I’m a
Romantid”
    I tried as hard as possible not to let him see the tiny smile that was creeping across my face. It was true, Brew wanted things to be perfect, less