Pandemic Hike

On the Saturday afternoon of Thanksgiving weekend, my husband Benson and I drive about an hour outside of our city to a large nature preserve. We take a long beautiful hike through the woods to a beaver lake, then on to a river, and then back. We emerge at the parking lot where we left our car just as the sun is starting to set. We’re relieved that it isn’t any later – it was already getting a bit dark among the trees. 

We’re trying to remove some of the mud from our boots before getting in the car when a middle-aged woman approaches us. With her are four young adults, two women and two men, perhaps her children, perhaps two couples. One of the young women is about four months pregnant. The group also includes a golden retriever. The middle-aged woman explains that they got themselves turned around while hiking and have ended up at the wrong parking lot. Their car is in the lot at the other entrance to the preserve, a hike of several hours back through the woods, or of who knows how many hours by road.

She asks us if we can help them get back to their car. At any other time, we’d say yes without hesitation. But it’s November of 2020. We’re in the middle of a pandemic and the number of infected people is soaring. Plus, it’s Thanksgiving weekend. Who knows how much traveling these people have done in order to be together for the holiday. Who knows how many exposures they may have had along the way.

I’m scared to get involved with these strangers, who could give me a life-threatening disease. I say I want to think about it and head to the porta-potty. When I get back, Benson persuades me that we can do it reasonably safely. We discuss the options for a few minutes, then settle on having Benson drive just the middle-aged woman to the other car. Both she and Benson will wear their masks the whole time and they’ll keep all of the windows open to create as much air circulation as possible. The woman will sit as far away from Benson as she can, in the back seat on the right hand side. It’s not six feet of social distance, but it’s the best we can manage in our car.

 Benson and the woman head out of the parking lot. Now that I’ve stopped hiking, I’m starting to get cold. I reach into my pockets for my hat and gloves, but find only tissues and sanitizer from my trip to the porta-potty. I’m puzzled for a minute, then realize with a pang that my hat and gloves are in my backpack, and my backpack is still in the car. I was so busy thinking about what we should do that I neglected to grab it before Benson left.

I pace up and down for a while, attempting to stay warm.  One of the young women calls to me:

“Thank you so much for helping us.” 

“You’re welcome,” I call back. I try to sound sincere, but I know I actually sound grudging. The young woman tries again:

“I’m sorry we’ve put you in this situation.”

“Stuff happens,” I say. I know I should be nicer, maybe chat for a while, but I’m mad at these people. Why didn’t they pay more attention to where they were going? This is a terrible time to make such a bone-headed mistake. 

I take a break from pacing and sit on a large rock for a while. But pretty soon the cold starts seeping into my backside, so I get up again. I’ve been vaguely expecting Benson to be back in ten or fifteen minutes, but now it occurs to me that it will certainly take longer than that for him to drive all the way to the other side of the preserve and back again. I wish I had my phone, so I’d have something to do. But my phone is also in my backpack, along with my wallet. So not only do I have nothing to do – I also have no way of communicating. And I have no money and no ID.

I suddenly feel a little panicky. What if Benson doesn’t come back? What if he has a car accident or some other mishap? What will I do? It’s getting darker and darker in the parking lot and all I have is a package of Kleenex and a bottle of hand sanitizer. 

Oh…

What I’ll have to do is ask the four young adults for help. They have their phones. They have their backpacks, so presumably they have their wallets. They even have their hats and gloves. They may have hiked to the wrong parking lot, but they didn’t leave themselves standing in the dark in the middle of nowhere completely empty-handed.

Benson does come back, and just behind him is the middle-aged woman driving her own car. Our two groups don’t wave goodbye to each other. We just silently get into our respective vehicles and drive away. Benson and I talk about how complicated it was trying to figure out whether we should help or not. He points out that we’d certainly be hoping someone would take the risk of helping us if we were in the same situation.

“Yes,” I say, “we certainly would.”