50

Last month, I turned 50.

That day, we flew to New Mexico. I had a strong guess that New Mexico was the secret destination that Scott had been planning for nearly a year because I knew he and my brother Jim were in cahoots, but I didn't know much more than that. 

After arriving to ABQ, a friend surprised me at the airport. Then another friend, and others. And we drove to Santa Fe for dinner, where more friends joined in the surprise. Xan and her boyfriend, Jim and his girlfriend Mallory, John and Juan, Doug, Russ, my sister-in-law Kelly, Sean and Liria. From Seattle, LA, Massachusetts, New Zealand, all these people, from different parts of my life, surprised me with their love. Scott, my husband and most beloved of people, had made magic happen.

This is just the beginning.

Scott and Jim had been working hard for months to try to score a lottery spot for a three day wilderness rafting trip down the Rio Chama, and apparently it almost didn't work, but suddenly, at the end, it all did. The day after we arrived, after many hours of packing and preparing, we set out on a hot day in an old school bus, with my brother at the wheel, two of his buddies as guides plus one of their girlfriends, two dogs, and a crew of merry loved ones. Three rafts. Seven funyaks. Two inner tubes. So much food and drink and everything else we could think of needing, including a guitar and a fiddle. We drove for a couple hours over a mountain, my brother telling us the tale of a horrible car crash he and my mom witnessed once on the pass, all of us tumbling out to take pictures at a view site, and throughout the drive, yelling over the din of the bus, "Did you see that stand of wild iris?," "Tell me more about your new job," "How is your kid doing?" So much good talking and sometimes, just quiet watching. I scoured my friends' faces for age and experience. I stared out the window and thought about love.

At the launch site, just under El Vado Dam, it took us more time to get the bus unloaded, the rafts loaded, and everything ready to go. Finally, we were on the water.

That first day was the last time I could use a funyak. I started my period.

In the way I'm experiencing perimenopause, my periods are horrible. Every three weeks, a new battle ensues with so much blood loss that there is very little I can do to manage without an hourly trip to the bathroom to change everything. I don't sleep through the night because I know if I do, I'll make a mess. I fear sitting on anything valuable, despite double protection of both tampon and pad.

This is not a great condition to be in for a wilderness river trip with no bathrooms, just an old ammunition can with a toilet seat attached to it. This is not a condition conducive to sitting in river water all day.

My body, as it nears menopause, is going all out, pouring everything into each cycle, last chance for this old uterus of mine.

I did not necessarily want to share this with all of my friends gathered in this remote spot to celebrate a half century of my life, but it was impossible not to. One thing about being in the woods with no buildings for three days—everyone knows everyone's business. And, that's okay. I rode a raft the rest of the trip rather than a funyak, which meant I got to ride down the river with my brother and Mallory and dog Henry, and that was a pretty meaningful way to spend the next two days. Russ gave me the river name Pit Stop. Though I couldn't enjoy the hot springs we arrived to on our first night, I could enjoy the stars. 

The days were full of laughter, sunburn, poison ivy threats, and Henry's bark. Slackjawed in awe, we floated by ochre and rust sandstone cliffs. Swallowtail butterflies filled the air, mud swallows swooped from their cliffhanging nests, and we saw herons and ducks and so many other species of birds. While I rode with my brother on his raft, I witnessed my friends, some who had never met each other before this trip, row up to each other and chat, then rearrange, and chat with others: a web of my life, floating together down a wilderness river. The nights were full of food and music and stories. 

On the trip, one friend ended up ass over teacup, and another kept missing the beer boat. One braided our hair, one shared miraculous hand cream with everyone for their chapped hands, and one played old timey songs on the fiddle. A couple made some of us cry with their songs, and all three guides broke their bodies working so hard to get the gear laden rafts through the rocky, low water. One's ankles were so sunburned that shoes became enemies, and another never seemed to get even a little frustrated. Each of us made jokes about the groover. I struggled with my body in its particular stage, but never for a moment did I wish I was anything other than 50. How do you tell the story of three days of hard work, deep nature, and so much love gathered over decades? Maybe it isn't a story to tell very well, but just to hold in your heart.

The third day of the river trip, we landed at our final site, loaded the bus in the heat, cooled off in the river, and headed to the shade for food before driving home. On the way home we stopped at an old convenience store which we greeted with joy. Cold beer, real bathrooms, aloe vera with lidocaine for the sunburned, a coconut popsicle for me. Finally, once we were back in our home base of Taos Valley, we ordered takeout pizza and had a leisurely (and clean!) dinner around the table at our condo, a large and comfortable home Mallory had secured for us. 

My friends headed home in waves in the next few days, but we had time to see art and history together, to play trivia games with my brother and Scott's sister, and to take walks in the woods. We laughed together more, and enjoyed the gifts of each other's company.

On the last day, driving to Albuquerque, just me and Scott, Kelly, and Russ, the sky broke open into an early monsoon storm. Lightning and sheets of rain slapped our rental car shuttle. We worried if we would get out due to the weather. But there were no delays. We all made it.

Russ, the first to surprise me at the airport a week earlier and the last to leave us that day, said to me as we parted, "We'll remember this when we're old."

From his lips to God's ears. I hope to remember forever the week I turned 50.

Photo by Kelly Merrill