Back in February, your mother and I planned a trip to Norway with your Uncle Derek and Aunt Carol. It was supposed to be the average one-week vacation trouncing around Norway with one big adventurous hike to Troll’s Tongue.
By the time the trip rolled around, your mom had been carrying you for ten weeks already. Still in her first trimester, we weren’t even sure whether she was allowed to fly, let alone go on a 22 kilometer-hike. We managed to sneak one visit in to the midwife, who was adamant we skip that part of the trip altogether. We fret some more, afraid we would have to cancel the trip, but after receiving the OK from your Aunt Sharon, the hike was on again (the rules were: stay hydrated, stay snacking, frequent breaks, and Jonathan carries everything).
As we were going to Norway in June, when the sun is out until midnight, we figured it’d be a fun time with summer breezes and grassy plains. Our last minute preparations with weather checks revealed 10 out of the 11 kilometers were still covered in deep snow. But your mother’s determination was deeper and she wanted this one last hurrah, midwife and snow be damned.
So the four of us walked for twelve hours and twenty two kilometers through snow and mud so we could see a slab of rock sticking out like a tongue. The fog was so thick at one point we couldn’t see someone further than twenty meters away from us – it was like having White Walkers (yes, big Game of Throne geeks here – we’re on season five at the time of this post) appear out of nowhere when other hikers caught up to us.
If you turn out to be an athletic kid or even just an active one, your mother is going to trace it to this Troll’s Tongue hike (epigentics, they call it). And I would have to agree. You and your mom are warriors. I am just the pack mule.