Role Reversal

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For reasons unknown I have a free subscription to Backpacker Magazine. I usually don’t read it, although I’ve been a backpacker all my life: don’t need anymore gear and don’t want to feel bad about all the beautiful places I’ve never been.

But I happened to flip to a short article the other day that starts out: “Mom wanted to turn back.” So, being a mom, and being 63, a year older than the mom in question, I continued reading. The family had canoed into Canyonlands National Park but were out hiking up one of the side canyons when they encountered a “van sized rock” that was blocking passage through the canyon slot. No problem; the sister hoisted mom onto the shoulders of one of the brothers while the other brother pulled her up from the top of the rock.

This role reversal made a big impression on her, as it did on me the first time Jakob had to finagle the safety strap off my telemark skies because I couldn’t stay on my knees long enough to do it myself. This was at the same ski area where years ago he and I climbed up the slopes in the deep powder—before it opened for the season—and I was the one on my knees struggling to get his skis on him in four feet of snow. He remembered, and casually commented, wasn’t it funny, him helping me with equipment.

Then there was Saturday before last, in four feet of snow again, only this time it was sloppy spring snow and our snowshoes were busting through the crust every few steps as we slogged our way up the trail in the Pecos Wilderness. We were doing this because he needed to take photographs of ski clothes in the snow for one of the magazines he reviews for, and the only snow to be found was above 10,000 feet.

He also thought it would be a great way to celebrate a belated Mother’s Day, so the role reversal that day made even more of an impression on me. On one of the steepest sections of the trail, as I followed behind, my snowshoe fell into the depression his shoe had made but continued downward until it was wedged under a log and I was up to my thigh in snow. I pulled and tugged and tried to reach my binding with my hand, to no avail. Resigned, I had to call for help. Laughing, he quickly dug me out with my pole and pointed out, once again, how funny the situation was.

I’m not sure what I’d call it: funny is better than sad, which was an element of my emotional palette. But I also felt proud of both of us, actually: he, who was obviously delighted to be of help; and me, for being out there skiing and snowshoeing with diminished strength and skill but at least still out there.

Exhausted before we made it to the lakes we took off our snowshoes and Jakob spent two hours taking pictures: jackets on, with the dogs, (who also hated the post holing), without the dogs, with the ridgeline as backdrop, without the ridgeline, with trees, without trees, on the rock, in front of the rock; jackets off, lying in the snow, in the sun, in the shade, until the whole damn camera card was full. It was all rather ridiculous, but that made the role reversal a little easier to take: not all the laughter was at my expense.