Hiking in Bergen, Norway

“Happy Birthday!” my husband says in my ear. “Wakey wakey!”

My eyes crack open, heavy from sleep, to see his coarse red beard and big blue eyes in my face. I groan and roll over on a stiff futon mattress, feeling my back release the stiffness in several little pops. I stretch, groping the floor for my phone.

“It can’t be time yet. Did it even get dark outside?” I look at my phone and sure enough, it’s six AM.

“Nope. It never got fully dark.” He beams and scooches his way to the edge of the bed. “We should get dressed and go find a place to eat before finding the shuttle.”

I sigh, knowing he's right.

It’s spring in Norway and my husband and I are in Bergen, a small town settled along the water, surrounded by mountains. It is the first of five cities we plan to visit over the course of ten days. Today’s hike from Mt. Ulriken to Mt. Floyen is our most anticipated adventure of the trip. We arm ourselves with determination to keep the jet lag and sleep deprivation from dampening our spirits.

I take many breaks, but the throbbing is relentless. My husband nudges me on, giving me pep talks, which only fuel my anger and resentment. I feel tricked and lied to, but I have mixed feelings about blaming my well-meaning husband. There is no calling a car to come get me, and there is no going back now that we’ve come so far. It’s just me, my pain, and the wilderness. These realizations of our isolation leave me feeling vulnerable and raw. On the last few miles, I’ve lost my ability to make coherent sentences. I’m a jumble of raw emotions, and tears are visibly streaming down my face. My husband tries to console me, but I just want it to be over.

At the end of our seven-hour ordeal, I hobble to the tram, where crowds of people sit eating late lunches, shop for souvenirs, and bask in the afternoon sun. No one knows what I’ve just endured. I crumple to the ground, unable to stand and take in the golden sun sinking over the sparkling fjords, a view I worked so hard for. All I feel, aside from constant unescapable throbbing, is disappointment. I hate that I let my pain get the best of me and that I didn’t work harder to savor every moment.

We limp back into town, dirty and smelly, and stagger into the nicest restaurant we can find. As soon as we sit, I unapologetically kick off my mud-encrusted boots under the table, hoping no one notices my dirt-smudged, mismatched socks. That night we reward ourselves with thick cuts of steak, savory scallops, and several glasses of champagne. I sit humbled, unable to process my gratitude toward my husband for pushing me through it, and resorting to flat out lying about how much farther we had to go to keep me from having a meltdown. Now that the pain and memory of the hardship have faded, I’m left with a sense of pride for what we accomplished. I now know myself better, and I know I can test my limits farther and come out the other side stronger.