9

Band Of Secrets

“I still catch myself taking my thumb and rubbing the underside of my ring finger. I used to think it was just a nervous habit. I now know it’s because I’ve never gotten used to my hands being void of these precious jewels. Although free of broken vows and bonds, it is forever empty of belonging and commitment."

I haven’t worn a wedding ring in over two years, so I’ve decided it’s time to sell them—all of them; a stunning collection of rubies, sapphires, diamonds, gold, and platinum. I’ll never be able to wear them again, but at least on these backpacking trips, no one else wears one either. Our marital status doesn’t matter because no lines are ever crossed. It just somehow allows us to get to know each other as a whole person—not half a person with the balance left at home. Everyone’s all here. Mind. Body. Soul. Spirit. And over time, we talk. We divulge our secret home life—and why those with spouses most often come alone. 

     As we cat herded everyone together from neighboring states, logistics were formulated so that six of us would begin our backpacking trip on the Bartram Trail heading south, and five would head north. South bounders drove northbound cars just above Highlands, NC, and the north bounders left southbound cars outside of Clayton, GA. There would be a key swap at the camp spot that night. Thank goodness I didn’t have to wrap my head around this—it was already spinning from just the north/south thing.

     New members were now joining our escapades, along with those whose path I had yet to cross. I loved this part. I savored these new friendships—always knowing a bond would form just like it had with everyone else. And I knew these bonds were very different from those associated with my rings. So as my half of the group began our journey, I pictured all the wedding rings left at home—wondering what it felt like for each person. The secrets each piece held. I thought about the happiness of my new friends and if they, too, rubbed the underside of their ring fingers as they hiked along these trails—missing the feeling of belonging or being relieved of their responsibilities for just a few short days.

     Apparently, we north bounders got handed the most beautiful part of the trail on the first day. Just when I thought I was in heaven, crossing over a bridge with the roar of water passing quickly underneath, another one would appear out of nowhere. And mushrooms flourished in this cool, misty environment. We began to name them as they took on shapes and colors of cake pops, bagels, and pancakes. Or just maybe we had eaten them and were hallucinating—salivating over foods we craved that didn’t exist in our backpacks!

     As usual, I eventually managed to distance myself between the faster hikers and a couple making a mushroom photo album. I left them messages carved in the dirt with my trekking pole so they would know I had gone the right way. I stopped at a couple of scenic views and sat down for a while to call my son. I knew he and my daughter were so proud of how far I’d come in my personal journey, and I hoped that one day they’d be sitting right here with me and sharing these incredible vistas from the same viewpoint.

     For the next mile or so, the trail widened. A trickle of water flowed towards me and soon became a small rushing stream full of rocks that I chose carefully for balance so my boots could stay dry. My heavy backpack didn’t allow it, but I really just wanted to skip across the rocks with the innocence of a small child. I longed for that youthful feeling with no haunting past and no remorse from failed relationships. I no longer wanted to harbor secrets—I only wanted to imagine a fairy tale life. So for another mile or so, I did. I slowed down and pretended that my life was perfect…the mirage of wedding rings once again glistening in the sun, proving someone loved me and only me.

     The stream eventually disappeared, as did my mirage, and wound its way back up into the mountain. I continued on the trail, soon finding the others at our campsite for the night. I set up my tent so close to the stream that if we had gotten any significant amount of rain, I probably would have drowned. I didn’t care...as long as the only noise I heard all night was that of water—rushing to find its way over the rocks and through the woods. I slept soundly, but only after waiting up to make sure the south bounders made it to camp. Their section was four miles longer than ours, with little to no water sources. They arrived just before dark—dehydrated, hungry, and tired. I knew tomorrow would be a very long day.

     I left camp the next morning with one other hiker. Engrossed in conversation, we disobeyed a golden rule, and both stepped right over a pile of neatly stacked sticks—taking us off the trail and down a hill until we no longer knew where to take the next step. Since it was pretty obvious we were off track, we turned around to see a very steep set of steps leading upward. Our day had begun. We literally stopped at the crest of every incline just to regain a normal breathing pattern. Either we got used to trudging uphill, or the elevation began to level out, but eventually, I was breathing easily enough to carry on a conversation with another hiker and walk at the same time.

     The two of us had been on quite a few hikes together, but never where we ended up in the same place for such a long time. We had at least six more miles to reach our car, so we let the others spread out and opened up about our personal lives—about the rings that were missing from our fingers—about the differences in the reasons why. We took turns listening to each other’s long stories, asking questions to make sure we understood those ever-important details.

     I could almost hear my own thoughts echoing—bouncing scenarios off each other—mulling things over—ruminating. This was the second person who had revealed their ‘not so perfect’ home life. I honestly wondered if my wedding rings held any more secrets than all the ones that would be slipped back on fingers at the end of the day...hiding within them love so densely interspersed with varying types and degrees of emotions that the process had simply become a routine. And the few days in between, a sanctuary, just like it had become for me.

     I went home and pulled my wedding rings out of the bag I had waiting to take to the jeweler. I curled up on the sofa for what seemed like forever, slid the precious gems on my finger, and listened to all the secrets one last time. Tears fell at some of their pettiness. Anger erupted at some of their truths. Smiles formed at some of their happier moments.

     I missed wearing this showy symbol of proof that I had someone significant in my life, but I was also okay with my finger being unadorned for now. For all the jewels in the world, I would rather the proof of true love be found in a man not sitting at home but hiking these trails right beside me—sharing my interests and passions. Someone that fits more like a glove and whose warmth would always surpass the coolness of any precious jewels adorning my ring finger.