My wife, Kasia, and I stood at the edge of the frozen river, contemplating our own mortality. The map had promised a footbridge, but all we saw were jagged slabs of ice, thrusting up at strange angles, as if the river had fractured, shifted and then refrozen. Beneath the ice, ever so faintly, we could hear the muffled rush of water.
We had been skiing for two and a half hours this past January to get to this spot, deep in the backcountry of the Adirondacks, and now we had a dilemma. Our route was a loop and we had almost completed it. The temperature was bitterly cold. If we crossed the river it would be a short, easy ski home. If we turned around, it would be another two and a half hours, much of it uphill. Did I mention we were both almost 50? It’s a dangerous age, when muscle memory mixes easily with hubris and self-deception. Bad decisions can result.
In a way, this moment was the whole point of the expedition — to escape the endless, quotidian routines of middle age. I mean, seriously: When did excitement become finding a four-pack of extra-fine wool blend socks at Costco for $16.99? (Though that is kind of thrilling.) Kasia and I had been together since college, for 28 years, and we’d been content. No affairs. No impulsive changes in career. No midlife crisis. But perhaps the challenge of crossing this precariously frozen river was, if not a crisis, then a summons. Perhaps we had been seeking this moment without even realizing it.
Initially, I was very much against crossing, for all of the obvious reasons. Kasia was slightly more inclined to consider the possibility. Kasia is funny this way. She is a medical school professor, whose outlook on life is generally governed by logic. Imagine if Dr. Spock had an iron-willed Vulcan daughter who loved scientific journals, the Arctic and Ironman competitions. That’d be my wife. But every so often, she gets this gleam in her eyes. It’s kind of a crazy look. A touch of summit fever. It’s spooky and kind of sexy, and deeply annoying all at once.
Together we tested the ice with our ski poles. Seemed pretty solid.
Our 100-pound golden retriever, Milo, outfitted in his sporty orange hunter’s vest, also poked around the edge of the ice and then looked up at us, the way dogs do, as if to say: You can’t be serious.
The whole scene evoked a powerful sense of déjà vu to half a lifetime earlier, when we stood at the edge of another dangerous waterway. We were in our late 20s and recently married. We were hiking the Kalalau Trail in Kauai, Hawaii. It was an arduous, 11-mile trek to a remote beach, where we’d camped for a few days. Then we turned around and hiked back along the same trail. Two miles before completing our journey, we encountered a stream called Hanakapiai. We crossed it on our way in, but since then there’d been heavy rains, and now the stream was flooded and had become a raging river. On the far bank, we saw a large crowd of backpackers. They were, apparently, too frightened (and too sensible) to attempt a crossing.
The real danger wasn’t the stream but what lay beyond — where it spilled into the ocean and the currents were treacherous. On the beach, there was a sign with a death tally of those who’d waded into those waters and never came back. We knew someone on the list: the father of a kid who’d gone to college with us.
Waiting for the stream to subside didn’t seem to be an option because — don’t laugh — we had a wedding to attend. We were at that point in our lives where everyone was getting married and the energy felt like a whirlwind. We didn’t want to miss it.
Plus, there was a rope. It was tied securely between two palm trees on opposite sides of the stream. It seemed to be an invitation.
“Think we can cross it?” I asked Kasia.
She nodded.
We strapped on our enormous backpacks and clung to that rope for dear life as we battled the current. When we emerged on the far side, the backpackers cheered. I pumped my fist triumphantly. We raced to the wedding, hearts pounding, eyes gleaming.
Some two decades later, deep in the Adirondack woods, there we stood, at the edge of the jagged ice. These two moments felt like the beginning and the end of something, with our lives in the middle. Now our kids, ages 16 and 18, were almost grown. The oldest boy, who has a girlfriend and the keys to our car, was already one foot out the door. An empty nest loomed. Many of the weddings that we had attended, all those years ago, had ended in separation or stalemate.
“What do you think?” I asked Kasia. “Can we cross it?”
She hesitated, and I understood. Of course we could cross it. Or try to, anyhow. But was that really still the question? Or was it more like: Should we cross it? Given who we were now — older, wiser and, yes, more boring. We had a house, a 401(k), cars, kids and a dog. At night, we often lay awake in bed, worrying about our kid’s college applications and our parents’ health. All of it, the whole sometimes weighty lot of it, felt like the preamble to an impulsive decision.
Together we surveyed the frozen river one last time, then locked eyes. The river hummed beneath the ice, seductive and insistent, pulling us toward its edge, as if it understood us better than we understood ourselves.
“What would we tell our kids to do?” Kasia asked finally.
And that settled it.
We had flirted with the danger of the river just enough to send a jolt through our hearts, but we had enough sense to ignore its call. And it felt good. Because when you’re young, the river owns you.
Together we turned and followed our dog, who was already trotting back up the hill, commencing the long journey home.
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