“I hate dependency.” The thought of a strong-minded, independent young woman, one who had climbed Mount Whitney twice and was undaunted by a fifty-to-one-hundred-mile bike ride.
“I’m embarrassed to be seen being carried.” The thought of every young woman or man concerned about how they fit into the world.
Linda, with mental strength beyond imagining, buried all this negativity and embraced our shared roles. The prospect of access to the places we loved—the beach, the mountains, the countryside—was enough for her to push all those feelings into a box from which they have never emerged.
Together, we advanced. I modified a pack frame, literally made for a hunter to carry a deer, so that I could carry my dear. And she adopted a spirit of gracious dependence. With a set of shoulder straps mounted in reverse, Linda could sit comfortably on the seat, safely buckled in by the straps, and ride on my back. When she was dressed in hiking clothes and carrying a liter of drinking water, the whole enchilada weighed about ninety pounds. A heavy pack, but doable.
I love this feeling of strength, of power, and of romance. But it goes way beyond that. She needs me. Going from point A to point B has become an exercise in intimacy between us and invisible to others. The carrying is part of our bond. It is also something that stirs and evokes something primitive and ancient in the soul of every man who sees us. I’m carrying my woman off. Off to wherever to do whatever. Every man wants to do this. Every man feels this instinctive need.
Years later, as we reveled in the wonders of Machu Picchu in Peru, I saw this confirmed again.
To tour Machu Picchu means to walk, to go up and down steep staircases of rock. After we stopped to rest, our guides offered to take turns. After the first guide’s turn, I leaned in to take over. Jose, who was carrying Linda at the time, looked at me with a serious stare. I turned, and Washy was giving me the same look. It was Benjamin, our principal guide and the one whose turn it was next, who articulated their thoughts: “I will never get a chance to do this again in my life. Would you take this pleasure away from me?” They had discovered Linda. They had discovered the intimacy of carrying and of being carried.
“No, Benjamin,” I said, returning his smile, “I will not take this experience away from you.”
As he hoisted her up onto his back, a grinning, happy Linda looked over his shoulder at me. For now, she belonged to them.
“Yo lo comprendo,” I stammered back in rudimentary Spanish. I knew how he felt.
I had seen that look before. In the eyes of the train porters and every hiker we’d encountered on trails across the Americas.
We could canoe, and we could do backcountry. The frame allowed me to carry Linda easily on the portages from lake to lake on long, wonderful circuits in Canada and the United States, where we camped and fished and let our kids have the run of a purely natural world for two weeks at a time. We occasionally saw other people who were pleasantly surprised by the two-headed voyageur coming toward them on the portage trail. Linda’s grin and banter immediately disarmed them, and they went their way, having had their day biased toward the positive. I began to notice the look in the eyes of the men we encountered. They were jealous. I deserve to be envied.