Hiking

I am not what you might call an "outside" person. Those of you who have known me for a long time will attest to this fact. You will recall numerous outdoor activities involving prehistoric-looking insects, the threat of dirt and despicable heat and humidity and my noticable absence. It is much preferable to have access to water that runs from a faucet, not a stream, and an outlet for my hairdryer. There are many things I would give up in this world, my Marriott Rewards number is not one of them.

So when we visit NH, I have panic-inducing flashbacks of the forced death marches family hikes that occurred in my youth. My parents love to recount far-fetched tales about my supposed behavior on these outings. Apparently, as a child, my preferred method of hiking was to pathetically appeal to a sympathetic stranger for a "ride" on their back--the original hitch-hike; and, hey, it was the 70s, so hitching a ride was a piece of cake.

Fast forward to summer 2007, in the same White Mountain region, with the same trails minus the hippies (okay some of the hippies, it is still northern NH) willing to help a sister out with a piggy-back ride here or there. I find myself in an uncomfortable predicament. The people who now accompany me to the Great North Woods want to do things like, well, hike. You can see my dilemma. Out of sheer love for my children, I agree to one "hike", which ends up being more like a walk, on a paved path, that happens to go through some trees and near some water. It's a win-win situation, or so it seems; but the children get greedy. They've been hiking and they've developed a taste for it. They want to go again. Fortunately, the same people who liked to drag me up and down the sides of mountains are happy to do the same with my children.