Sunday, July 31, 9:44 PM. Brewer.

I’m tired. Tired and disappointed. My head is splitting. I feel dizzy and sick, like I can’t uncross my eyes. I’m starting to regret we did this.

We got up early. Everybody was slow and mopey. I figured they’d perk up once the blood got flowing but they never really did. All of us are out of condition and the first hike was steeper than it looked on the map. We need to take more breaks.

Amy was sniping at me all day, picking and complaining, blaming me. At one point I caught her muttering something about this “insane hiking trip” just loud enough for me to catch the gist of it.

I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean, ‘insane?’”

She turned on a dime and faced me down. “I mean, whose crazy idea was it to take the family on this miserable trip?” The kids turned to look at us.

“It was our idea, yours and mine,” I replied. “And what do you mean ‘miserable?’”

She spread her hands and looked around at the sky. “What do I not mean ‘miserable?’ We’re tired. We’re sore. We’re lost—.”

“We are not lost,” I interjected. “The trails are just steeper than we thought—.”

“—We’re getting altitude sickness,” she continued. “I’m pregnant. Trevor is eight. And we’re alone in the mountains for five days. I’d say that’s pretty crazy.”

I looked at the ground and shook my head. I felt sick to my stomach. “Amy, we’ve known you were pregnant for, what, a couple of weeks? You’re just starting. Trevor has done bigger hikes than this. Today is rough, but it will pass. The rest of the trip will be great. You’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes, and turned to walk on. “Sure, Brewer. Everything will be wonderful. Wonderful as usual.” She took a few steps in silence, sharpening her next barb. “It’s not like we have much of a choice anyway.” She stomped up the path.

I didn’t trust myself to respond. I continued my march, and we all continued on our way.

We trudged along for half an hour in silence.

Then there was this meadow. Claire picked the puffy heads of some dandelions and started throwing them at people. It was annoying, and I was about to tell her to stop. Then the boys were laughing and chasing after her and throwing dandelions at her and each other. It became almost like a snowball fight. At fourteen, Garrett feels too big to run around “playing” with his little sister and brother, but he dove right in this time. I’m glad. They ran all over the field. Amy and I stood aside and watched. I don’t know how they have the energy.

After that the kids were fine, smiling and walking together. They showed each other how to make whistles out of blades of grass, which I didn’t know they knew how to do. Claire came over to me and wove her fingers into mine. Then Trevor came on the other side and took my left hand. Even Garrett walked alongside us. He asked about camp, what kind of place were we looking for to stop in, could he build the fire? It seemed they had forgiven and forgotten.

Amy barely said two words the rest of the day, no eye contact with anybody, hands on her pack straps and eyes on the horizon, off to the left somewhere.

We made camp here, in a clearing in a pine forest. There’s a nice fire blazing. I feel the stress and despair ebbing away. Nature, the outdoors, always does that to me.

The Milky Way out here is incredible. I don’t remember ever seeing so many shooting stars.

I can’t hate her. Can’t even blame her. She’s part of me. She’s hurting and confused and resentful, tied to a husband she no longer loves. But her hurt and confusion, even her resentment, is mine. I have to own it. I have to accept it. Or if not accept it, find a way to reshape it.

She’s so beautiful, angry or not, lying beside the campfire, one hand up behind her head. She probably knows I’m looking at her but she won’t meet my eyes. Her hair shimmers in the firelight. Those tawny eyes that I adore flash gold. Her lips beg me to kiss them, but she’d certainly kick me where it hurts.

I can’t hate her, even after everything that happened in the spring.

I’m no better than her.

She thinks I don’t love her, but I do, and I always will.

My head is spinning. I’d better stop writing.