KATHERINE GRAINGER Hiking With Willy and Grace

KATHERINE GRAINGER | HIKING WITH WILLIE AND GRACE

COVID-19 was everywhere. Civil unrest was on TV; the upcoming election was contentious. For the past six months, my son had been under incredible strain because I am constantly exposed to COVID at my job. Then, just when our vacation started, our water main broke. Despite his autism, Willie was trying to cope, but this was too much. He had to get his mind off the strife around us. Denny Creek Trail seemed a perfect hike.

We began with our usual squabble over water. Willie wanted six bottles in each backpack. I wanted two. He rolled his eyes in frustration. “We will get dehydrated! Why don’t you get that?”

I tried to reason with him. Willie was unable to negotiate. Finally, I instructed, “Put the excess water bottles in the cooler.” This would be a cranky and challenging day, but I kept our plans because I don’t want my thirty-four-year-old son to give into his fears and use autism as a crutch. I wanted to teach him to keep our commitments.

As I drove, Willie’s head was bent. He huffed and puffed as he flipped through pages of CDs. He couldn’t find what he wanted. His flushed face meant he was ready to give up. “Go slower, Son. It’s in there,” I said softly.

“It’s not there. I know it.”

“Take your time. Look at one page at a time.” I knew the importance of keeping everything the same, including what music was played first in the car. Willie quickly found the CD. He let out a loud sigh of relief as Ricky Martin sang with the rhythm of rapid drums. Willie’s head bobbed faster than the beat.

I bit my lower lip. He’s out of sync. It’s going to be a hard day. We’ll both need a bit of grace. Once parked at the trailhead, I decided to be proactive since I’m prone to asthma attacks and inhaled the medicine deep into my lungs. “Okay, I’m ready.” Willie was already walking up the steep incline. I followed. Boulders and tall trees surrounded the path.

“Hey Willie,” I began.

“I don’t want to talk, Mom.” He continued without glancing back.

Willie usually has a lot to say, but not this morning. I didn’t respond to his rude tone. “Ok, no problem.”

Although the medicine was helping, I paused to catch my breath. Not too bad for an out-of-shape sixty-one-year-old woman. “Using the inhaler

before the hike seems to be working. What do you think?”

“Yeah.”

I have dealt with my son’s autism for over thirty-four years. I know him and his behaviors. I knew the day was going to be hard, but I had no idea how hard until we had to cross a river on two skinny, unstable logs. Willie tested the first log with his hiking stick. It sank a few inches under his weight and rolled.

“Son, I think we should try another way.” Ignoring me, he stepped on it. My breath caught as I watched. Light-footed, he ran down its length. With a quick hop onto the next log, he made it to the other side.

Well if he can do it, so can I. I took two steps. “This thing is moving!” I took another wobbly step. The log rolled and I almost fell into the river. The older I get, the more I don’t like gravity.

“Will, come help your mom.”

My son sat, staring at the ground.

“I don’t want to fall in the drink!”

“Nope, you do it yourself.”

“Watch how you speak to me, young man.” The log bobbed. I got off.

“Wait till I get across,” I muttered. The grace I’d hoped for went screaming down the mountainside.

As I searched for a way to cross, I saw a mother and a young girl. “My daughter can help you,” she offered.

I smiled sheepishly and nodded.

A long-legged girl in a black tee shirt came splashing towards me.

“I feel so idiotic,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder. “At your age I would have slogged through and hiked in wet jeans.”

As I adjusted my straw hat, I thanked her, and then waved to her mother. “Don’t forget to use hand sanitizer,” I said. COVID. It’s always there. Even on a hike.

My son sat on a rock, pouting.

“Why couldn’t you help me? I raised you better than this.”

“You have to do it yourself and you have to do it my way.”

This isn’t like Willie. The last time he was this combative was back in middle school, when he didn’t understand what I was saying.

Then Willie got up and walked away. I stomped behind him. “Oh really!”

I felt like thunking him on the head with my hiking stick. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Since when did you become Mr. Control Freak?” My empathy for my son was gone.

Willie kept walking. I slammed my curvy stick down. “Ignore me, ha! Wait till you need help.”

“You always help me,” he said in his deadpan voice. I stopped in my tracks. Because of his autism, I do have to be there for him every day and night.

We continued up the mountain in silence. The green branches rustled in the gentle breeze. I stopped to listen. The soothing sound and fresh air calmed me. I followed Willie out into a massive meadow. Willie kept walking.

I stopped and took in the scene before me. Dragonflies with blue and orange wings landed on purple stalks that reached up into a blue sky. Surrounded by the sweet scent, I took a deep breath. Birds flew, and butterflies danced around us. I was enchanted, but my son didn’t even glance up. He moved quickly towards the forest. The mountain teemed with life. I watched a dragonfly sitting on a flower, looking content.

“Willie, stop! You’re missing nature’s show.”

“No.” He marched off.

Exasperated, I hung my head. Where is grace when I need her? The dragonfly turned towards me. “Do you have children?” I whispered. “You could whack them good with a tail like that.” The dragonfly flicked its wings as if to say, Get going, woman. He needs you. I sighed and trudged after my moody son, leaving behind the magic I’d hoped would help him.

Willie was still in a foul mood when we arrived at Keekwulee Falls. When I started snapping photos of the falls, a man offered to take our picture. Willie moaned.

I leaned over and whispered, “If you don’t stop the attitude, I will make your little life miserable for eternity. You know I can do it, so you might as well knock it off.”

Apparently, that did the trick. Willie stood next to me as the man took our photo. We both thanked him.

While we ate our lunch, I said, “You know, Willie, you need to tell me what’s going on. You’re missing a lot. This is a beautiful hike. Nature shows

how it lives in the moment. You didn’t look once as we walked on the mountainside. You are choosing to stay in a bad mood.”

Willie’s shoulders sagged, then his face crumbled. In a tumble of words, he said, “Nothing has gone right, Mom. There are too many changes this year. I can’t keep up. It makes my head hurt. Plus, the day is starting to warm up and we won’t have time to see the second falls.” He watched people playing in the Keekwulee Falls swimming hole. “I hate this stupid sinko-pee syndrome.”

The year’s challenges seemed endless. Willie had been diagnosed with vasovagal syncope. If it’s too hot, his heart slows, and he faints.

“That’s understandable,” I began. “But that doesn’t excuse you from being rude. Your meanness is uncalled for. Did it make your day happy?”

“No.” He looked down at his hiking boots.

“Only you can change the day,” I spoke gently. Although Willie was somewhat tempered, I was already contemplating our next possible crises. Would Willie pass out from the vasovagal syncope? Would his autism cause him to shut down completely? I envisioned lifting my son’s limp body by his wide shoulders. Or grabbing an ankle and dragging him down the mountainside. Stop! I wiped the images from my mind.

Willie looked at me, “The sun is rising, Mom. We have to get back to the car before it really warms up.” He sounded unhappy.

“We’re both learning to adapt. We’ll come back on a cooler day so you can see the second set of falls and perhaps enjoy the meadows.” I smiled. “What do you say?”

He laughed and looked relieved. “Okay, I think I would like that.”

“Let’s go.” I got up and he followed.

Willie talked nonstop on our way down. He pointed to flowers in the meadow. He was enjoying his surroundings.

When we arrived at the dreaded river crossing, my son ran across the slippery logs. I found a place where the water was lower and hopped from rock to boulder until I made it to the other side.

“Waaaahooo, I made it! Take a picture!”

“No, you were supposed to go across the logs like I did. You didn’t do it right.”

“Hey, I never tell you how to figure out a challenge. I resent you’re doing that to me.” I walked over to the river, smiled broadly, and took a selfie. Willie started to turn away.

“Look at me,” I said sternly. “Don’t ever speak to me that way again. You will not be mean and try to control me. I don’t do that to you: I encourage you. Which you did not with me. Am I clear?” One hand was on my hip while the other held a death grip on my hiking stick. Grace was nowhere in sight. Willie looked at my face for a good minute. I knew he needed time to process.

After a few minutes, he responded, “Okay, Mom.” We began our walk again.

For the next hour, Willie spoke about his favorite video games nonstop. It wasn’t that he ignored what happened; he just didn’t want to get overwhelmed again.

We finished the hike on a good note. Would we discuss it later? No. Hard days like this are best dealt with in the moment.

On the way home, Willie slept peacefully. Just as I started to chastise myself for not extending grace when Willie was so challenging, a gentler voice within spoke: You are the mother of an autistic adult and that’s no easy road. It requires patience, figuring out a positive outcome on the fly, and the ability to try to achieve goals you set.

When I thought about it, Grace was with us throughout our day! She was there when I inhaled medicine so I could breathe. She was there when a young girl helped me across the river and blessed me with peace in those life-filled meadows. She kept me from my worst impulses.

Grace helped me find a way to break through Willie’s wall. He was calm enough to enjoy the meadow on our way back. She helped me celebrate my small victory after the final river crossing. Then, just as I was about to lose my temper in the final hour of our hike, Grace helped me contain my anger and showed me how to respond to my son’s insolent behavior.

Whether we’re facing a difficult life challenge or struggling on a hike, our bond grows stronger. Though we may not always realize it, the struggle is real for us both: he trying to navigate his day and me guiding him. I had to remember that I have been through enough of these days to know Willie grows from experience and by extension, so do I. This was Grace’s final blessing of the day.