In the late 70s, after the women’s movement had firmly planted itself in the consciousness of the American public, I found myself climbing the White Mountains in New Hampshire with a group of women and a thirty-pound pack strapped to my back. I was trudging, one step after the other, as we rose above the tree line of Little Haystack. My fantasy of being a group of “sisters”, making camp and braiding each other’s hair by the fire had given way to fatigue and fear as the sun was setting and the ridge line seemed entirely out of reach.
When we finally got to the Appalachian Mountain Club campground, we learned all the spaces were taken. So we climbed down several yards and perched ourselves in “no man’s land” for the night. Our group leader was annoyed that our pace had been so slow. Boiling water for pasta took forever. By the time we ate and bedded down for the night, no one was talking. So much for kumbaya with women by the campfire!
It would be another 40 years before I would travel with a group of women friends. Not that I didn’t have women friends. Work and kids and couples nights out dominated my social life and clouded the gems of female friendships that lay just beyond the chaos of motherhood, career and marriage. A year ago, my divorce cleared the fog and what emerged were the women who have become my ballast as I rediscover myself.
Most recently, three of us ventured to Oaxaca, Mexico. And though there was no braiding of hair, or reading poetry by the campfire, we deepened our bonds out of little adventures all week long.
Our escapades started at a local market where we stared at the spiced grasshoppers and shopped for ingredients to make tamales at the home of our guide and cooking class instructor.
There were the endless parades of friends and family celebrating weddings, high school graduations and other moments, inviting tourists to join in the walk through the streets with lively music, puppets, and costumed dancers. I declared that for my next momentous occasion, I wanted a parade.
We visited the village of Tlacolula where we learned about the art of Zapotec weaving. There my friend Deb agreed to let them squish a bug in her hand to see the red dye it would make. It was beautiful and gross at the same time.
And the Temazcal healing ritual where Sharon and I crawled on all fours into a candlelit, brick-walled room that was 4 feet high by 6 feet wide and 7 feet deep. It was heated with hot stones that the healer would wet with water now and then. We kept peeking at one another saying, “Are you ok?”, “Yeah, I’m ok. You ok?”. Then she poured water all over us.
And who could forget the odyssey of Sharon’s lost luggage which finally arrived hours before our return flight. She literally picked up the bag from the airport attendant and brought it to the gate to check it back to New York. Then we all boarded the plane, fingers crossed, hoping she would be reunited with her luggage intact at the end of the trip. She was.
My life has changed a lot in a year. Largely for the better. I don’t carry baggage on my back, just luggage in my hand. And there’s plenty of room to fill it with whatever makes me happy.
