That's What Friends Are For

“I think we should cancel,” I said.

“It will be fine!” Tim replied.

My lifelong friend had been planning our hiking trip for months and refused to let a pesky little thing like unexpected neck surgery intrude into his vacation plans.

I knew Tim was a fitness fanatic and that he really looked forward to his annual wilderness trek, but I could see a disaster brewing. While Tim had hiked the area several times, I had never accompanied him. I had no idea where we were going, and as a generally sedentary writer, my idea of a strenuous workout was changing the wiper blades on my car. If something went wrong, we could be doomed.

“Tim, be rational here,” I pleaded. “You are having a serious operation, and within five weeks of your surgery you want to take a 12-mile hike in rugged terrain. You want to take the least traveled route, and there is no cell service out there. What part of ‘insanity’ is not clear to you?”

But I soon found myself in Memphis, TN, where we began packing for our adventurous excursion.

“This will be so great,” Tim said as we filled an ice chest with our pre- and post-hike rations: rib-eye steak, cookies, Snickers, carrots, oranges, more Snickers, milk, eggs … and the new kind of Snickers — with almonds.

“What’s with all the junk food? You have 48 candy bars for a one-day hike,” Tim said.

“Well, you brought all that trail mix and apples,” I replied defensively.

“But we need food essentials for the hike; we don’t need a bunch of extraneous weird stuff,” Tim said.

I weighed his words, then nodded.

“I thought four dozen Snickers would cover it, but we can pick up some more if you think we are a tad short. But we’d better dump the apples,” I said.

Tim rolled his eyes.

We each bent down to hoist an end of the cooler. Tim winced and set it back down.

“You OK?” I asked.

“Yeah, I just keep forgetting that the doctor gave me a weight limit. Can you put the cooler in the van on your own?”

“Sure. It isn’t that heavy. But, seriously, are you up to this? We can still go to the cabin and enjoy the area. Do some short walks, you can play your guitar, we can sit around the fire and roast some Snickers …”

“I’ll be fine,” he interrupted.

And thus we found ourselves in an incredibly beautiful location, hiking through quiet woods, fording small creeks, passing through caves adorned with centuries-old drawings created by the indigenous peoples. It was spectacular.

“Man, I am so glad we came,” I said. “And your surgery turned out to be a big plus, because I can keep up with you and even appear to be more physically fit than you. It is the best of both worlds.”

Tim paused to rest.

“Dave, I hate to say this, but I am having trouble feeling my fingers. They are starting to tingle. I think this backpack is a bit more than I can take right now. I’m sorry.”

And he was not joking.

“Give me your backpack,” I said.

Wearing two backpacks made me look like Quasimodo, and slowed me considerably.

Tim, on the other hand, felt immeasurably better and was positively perky, while I lagged behind holding my hands over my ears and calling out, “The bells! The bells!”

Three miles later we paused for lunch.

“I usually hike alone. It is my annual sabbatical, my retreat. But I am so glad you are here,” Tim said.

A wave of emotion washed over me.

“We’ve been friends for, what, 30 years? Amazing. And this is our first hike together,” I added. “So I am thinking that you figured you needed a good Sherpa, but it would have been really hard to get one all the way over here from Everest.”

“And donkeys are way too expensive,” he replied, biting into a Snickers.

I only hope I get to have neck surgery someday so he gets a turn.

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2).