Although Al Purdy’s “Over the Hills in the Rain, My Dear” describes an incident I’ve experienced more times than I care to remember, it’s not the kind of incident that I’d try to express in a poem. Perhaps that’s why Purdy is a famous poet, and I’m hardly a poet at all.

OVER THE HILLS IN THE RAIN, MY DEAR

We are walking back from the Viking site,
dating ten centuries ago
(it must be about four miles),
and rain beats on us,
soaks our clothes,
runs into our shoes,
makes white pleats in our skin,
turns hair into decayed seaweed:
and I think sourly that drowning
on land is a helluva slow way to die.
I walk faster than my wife,
then have to stop and wait for her:
“It isn’t much farther,”
I say encouragingly
and note that our married life
is about to end in violence,
judging from her expressionless expression.
Again I slop into the lead,
then wait in the mud till she catches up,
thinking, okay, I’ll say something complimentary:
“You sure are a sexy looking mermaid dear!”
That didn’t go down so good either,
and she glares at me like a female vampire
resisting temptation badly;
at which point I’ve forgotten
all about the rain,
trying to manufacture
a verbal comfort station,
a waterproof two seater.
We squelch miserably into camp
about half an hour later,
strip down like white shriveled slugs,
waving snail horns at each other,
cold sexless antennae
assessing the other ridiculous creature —
And I begin to realize
one can’t use a grin like a bandaid
or antidote for reality,
at least not all the time:
and maybe it hurts my vanity
to know she feels sorry for me,
and I don’t know why:
but to be a fool
is sometimes
my own good luck.

L’Anse aux Meadows, Nfld.

While most great hikes blend into a dreamy haze, the disastrous hikes seem to remain as vivid as the moment you lived them. And though I sometimes joke that my worst day hiking is better than my best day teaching, that’s certainly a faulty generalization, one that’s called into question by the kind of day Purdy describes, which, unfortunately, is not a terribly unusual event here in the rainy Pacific Northwest.

Of course, being a man, no matter what the conditions it’s necessary to buck up the women on the hike with cheerful chatter, and that’s especially true if the hike is more miserable than usual, though I’ve never asked a woman her opinion on the matter. Still, I have sensed a similar disenchantment when I’ve encouraged my wife to go hiking or cross-country skiing with me when the conditions have turned out to be less than optimum.

There’s few things more romantic that a strenuous hike and a meal beside a roaring campfire, but nothing squelches desire faster than a bucket of cold water, unless it’s a steady downpour of cold rain.

It’s always a little surprising then when such trips stand out in your memory, and somehow provide stronger ties than all those great hikes.