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To log, or not to log

There comes a time in every life when a challenge is more than the sum of its parts: it is an offer of agency that may never present itself again; a chance to regain control; a chance to prove something to the face that looks out from the mirror morning after morning, hoping it can identify with its twin at last.

Perhaps it’s my age that makes me think like this, but I suspect there has always been a still small voice muttering softly in the back of my head that seeks authenticity before it loses control completely. I may be wrong to generalize from my own inner needs, but I’d like to think I’m not alone in this. I’d like to think that we all need a moment on the plinth.

There is a log crossing a creek that leads to a tarn near my house; it used to be the only way of getting to a trail on the other side, and so I learned to cross it if I went that way. I’ve only fallen twice (okay maybe three times, but I don’t usually count the time when I saw people pointing at me from the other side and shaking their heads). Anyway, after each fall I climbed back on board and finished the journey -once to the applause of those who stood to watch that time. There’s something valuable to be said about determination –‘grit’ as my father used to say.

Unfortunately, a small and indestructible pedestrian bridge was built to circumvent the log for the many tourists who wished to walk around the lake. I saw the crew as they were building it, and since the easiest crossing point for a bridge was several metres downstream from my idiosyncratic route, they left the log alone. The workers glanced at my greying beard, smiled, and shook their heads when I thanked them for sparing the log; I don’t think they really understood… or cared.

But now, unless the creek is roiling with high water from a rainstorm and the log is covered, I make it a point of honour to cross via the log. It is my way of saying I still believe in myself; it is my way of proving I can still do it… Others, I fear, see it differently: from concern for my safety, to concern for my  diminishing judgment.  I am, however, able to point out to any who dare to ask, that whatever may be occurring, I am still proud to be agile enough to cross the log in anything but a storm.

The other day it occurred to me to offer another ageing walker who sometimes accompanies me on my perambulations a chance to feel, not just the aches and pains of the hike at the end of the day, but the thrill of succeeding at a seemingly pointless test of agility; of proving she could do something if only for the sake of doing it; of challenging not just her age, but her curiosity. It didn’t occur to me that she would find the suggestion silly. It didn’t occur to me that she might not be up to a dare -even with the encouragement and training I was willing to provide.

My idea was first to show her she could balance on a log lying dormant and unmoving on the ground in the forest, and then with the help of my hand, or a long stick she could employ to steady herself, to walk along it as if it were a rounded sidewalk. After all, for most of us, the idea of successfully crossing a creek on a log is more of a triumph over the ‘what-ifs’ than anything else -it’s still a log like any other one lying on the ground.

I suppose I shouldn’t have pointed out that even if she did happen to fall, it wouldn’t really matter. Apart from getting a little wet, and laughing about it, she would be very unlikely to hurt herself -especially if she carried a long and sturdy stick that reached the creek bed to stabilize her progress. I mean, think of what she could tell her husband over a glass of wine later; think of the bragging rights with her friends. Think of the memories…

Maybe it’s a gender thing at our age, however, or a ‘we never did that kind of thing when I was young’ kind of thinking.

My father and I lived in strange world in 1950ies Winnipeg. I remember him getting a tongue-lash from my mother for letting me walk on the concrete railing of a bridge when I was about 5 years old, or for daring me to make it up to the top branches of a tree in less than a minute later that summer. Perhaps he lived vicariously through me, but from what I later learned of his athletic prowess when he was young, I rather doubt he ever felt he was putting me at extra risk. I think he thought he was just training me to try new things.

After a fight with a bully in the school yard at recess one year, my mother was summoned to the principal’s office to hear an explanation about my bloody nose. I remember my father’s reaction when he got home from work that night.

“Who started the fight, G?” was the first question he asked after sitting me down in the living room.

I remember shrugging, and not wanting to tell on the other kid.

“Did you hit him back?” I could see smile blossoming in his eyes.

I nodded. “I punched him in the stomach, but then he got my nose…” I think he sighed when I told him the teacher came over to stop the fight.

“But you stood your ground, G and that’s important.” Then my father did something I didn’t expect. He put his arm around me and whispered something so my mother wouldn’t hear. “Always remember, G, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

I suppose my father’s advice seems dated nowadays, but it has always coloured my thinking about things. Of course I wouldn’t give up on the log, although I’m sure he would have understood if crossing it had involved some danger. But it didn’t, so I wouldn’t.

I’ve learned something else about people, though: we are all a product of our early influences: what we were taught to respect; what we were encouraged to try. I realize now that we don’t all find things like logs over a creek an important challenge to accept -not when there’s a perfectly respectable bridge only metres away.

I didn’t insist on trying to convince my friend to join me on the log, but I’m sure my father would have danced over it with me…

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