When my family goes hiking on the Northville-Placid Trail we carry water filters that look like fat novelty straws in our packs. We don’t carry the gallons and gallons of fresh water it would take to get six people though a four-day summer hike. Instead, we stop at creeks, ponds, and lakes along the way, filtering plastic bags of water through novelty straws.
At one campsite the lean-to looked out on a wide lake. The shoreline was pebbly but wading out my brothers and I discovered an expanse of sandy shallow water full of huge minnows. We sat in our dirty camp clothes, watching the minnows attack our feet and hands. We tried to catch them in our palms and then let them go after threatening to throw them at each other. I wondered, watching their gills tensely flap open and close, if we made them anxious, or if they were content to have something new to snack on.
The next day was humid and heavy. It rained, coating every leaf in water that clung in our clothes and weighted out steps. My father called back, again and again, to stay hydrated guys. I sipped my water, refusing to empty the bottle. I was afraid that when it emptied, we wouldn’t find any more.
Realistically, there was always water on the Northville-Placid Trail. Sometimes, in the low swampy parts, there was so much water it slowed us down. My awkward short legs bounced from half-submerged log to the least soupy mud, back to some slippery rock. Higher up, creeks drained down the mountains, scooping away the trail. I struggled to cross them with my pack. It wasn’t the physics of the thing that made me trip and halt, rather my own fear of slipping in, breaking bones, and losing supplies.
At one creek the face of the water sat in gouged rock as far away as the length between my feet and hips, and we couldn't tell how deep the water was. Crossing required a jump, one far enough to leave the bottoms of my hiking boots exposed to the elements while I crashed into the water. At least, that is all I could think about until my father took my pack across for me. When I finally jumped, I made eye contact with water for a third of a second and my heart stopped. Safe on the other side I wrestled my pack on and remembered how to breathe, winking away tears of frustration and terror.
My father said, drink some water, Mae, you’re doing fine. My bottle was almost empty, so I sipped it.
When the power went out at home during a break I remembered the water filters, thinking of things that my family would need if the power stayed down. Water is high on that list. I wondered if I should bring a filter back to my apartment. I decided not to, feeling silly, but still wondering what would happen if, realistically, there wasn’t water.
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