I turned to Sara seriously and said, ‘Can you stop laughing?’ A few minutes later, I heard heavy panting from behind. I thought she was having an asthma attack, so I stopped and turned back to look—only to find her bent over, weeping.
I was alarmed and rushed forward to check on her, finally realizing that my words and actions had affected her emotionally.
That day we’d faced attacking cattle herds, walked through unmarked grassy slopes where everyone had to blaze their own trail, and navigated treacherous terrain that was muddy, slippery, tilted, narrow, and steep. We were both wound tight. I just wanted to push through this terrible stretch as fast as possible, while Sara was trying to laugh away the tension. When I stumbled and fell, her loud laughter made me angry. I didn’t hold my tongue—I lashed out at her—and both our emotional reserves collapsed.
We sat down and apologized to each other, talking through the resentment and hurt between us. I’d never traveled with someone for so long before, but our time together gave us both courage and strength. Friction might seem to drain you, but it’s also a signal that you need maintenance—add some oil and keep being good hiking partners.
This was one of the worst days I can recall from my time hiking the North Island, but also one of the most important. It made me start thinking about who I am and who I want to be.
(Reflecting on diary entry from 2017/1/14)
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