The summer of our deep content

By Tim Hayakawa

My college buddy Norm drives his fiancée Corinne and me in his old, beat-up Ford pickup, all three of us up front in the cab. Because I’m relocating back to Hawaii soon, this will be our last hike together.

Monte Cristo trail northeast of Seattle starts off flat in scraggly trees and brush, and soon a swift, thigh-deep, pebble-strewn stream blocks our passage. The betrothed sit and I, disappointed at the hike’s short length, extract my camera and wander about for nature shots. When I return, the two are barefoot and Norm asks, “Aren’t you coming?”

“Where?” I ask.

“Over yonder,” he says, gesturing toward the stream. “You’re not gonna want to be hiking in wet boots. Come on, time’s a-wastin.’”

It’s a first for me to ford such a numbingly cold stream barefoot. Seeing Corinne so game, though, I muster courage and follow.

Above timberline, our path opens to a clearing, across which lies an enormous snow-packed field, glistening wet, that extends upslope a half-mile; the facade beyond is sheer granite made black with water that falls in rivulets, beautiful and barren. We venture out onto the sheet where footprints lead to the earthen path beyond. Gurgling sounds, hollow and deep, issue from beneath — indications of a hidden conduit.

“I’m going to get a drink from right there,” Norm says with a point to the distant waterfall and unshoulders his pack, heads off, and leaps off a rocky ledge further upslope.

I fret for him over concealed crevasses — one false step and who knows? I wait for his imminent return (or demise) and keep ready to help if needed.

After zigzagging the ice sheet for awhile, Norm makes it halfway up and Corinne follows. Then, after they both make it to the top, I go, too, careful to retrace their steps.

We snap black and white film photos of each other that I later develop, print, mount and frame for them as wedding gifts. Norm later recounts how Corinne cried as they opened them.

That joyous summer expedition 25 years ago showcased Norm (now divorced and living alone for the first time ever, his two kids off at college) at his most hopeful happiest, and me rejoicing in his triumph, feeling that all was right in our lives. We’ve changed in ways unforeseen, with Norm and his family wondering aloud at the time if I’d ever get married (I was already 27, gasp!). It took awhile, but I did, and my wife and I now have three children. Meanwhile, Norm calls often or seems to await my calls, exactly as I did that summer, when I was the live-alone bachelor and he was the busy family man — role reversals also unforeseen.

It’d been a dream of mine for us to meet post-retirements to take some wild, crazy road trip to nowhere or anywhere. But with Norm (a burnt-out engineer with a “cush job” lined up — his words) having only a “work until I die retirement plan” (also his words), chances look slim.

But 25 years hence, who knows?

Tim Hayakawa is an accountant who blogs at familymattersinhawaii.blogspot.com.

“A SHARED SPACE” is an ongoing reader-submitted column. To share your story, email coconnor@midweek.com