You might ask, “Why would anyone fill a rump sack with dehydrated food and some odds ends and then trek for hours and hours only to arrive exhausted and essentially end up sleeping in the dirt?”
The piece of paper tells me everything I need. It tells me to leave out things like extra t-shirts, multi gadget army knife and towel and not to forget things like a sleeping hat, lighter and Aleve for my back. It distills everything I will need from the time we hit the park or trailhead to the time we are eating at some diner days later on our return.
I find the finite nature of the list to be very comforting. There isn’t much else in life that can be this completely known. If it’s not included on the list, it ceases to exist. My world is reduced to what I am carrying on my back. Hiking for me is that sense of completeness coming from this focused containment. I think as humans we have special circuitry in our head that fires when we enter this state. It’s like reaching the end of a puzzle.
Last night we pulled into Graves something state park just after dark. There was a torrential downpour outside the car. The headlights revealed a completely soaked campsite. I could almost hear it saying "Come on out, I dare you," as the light shined back at us.
We waited about half an hour until it slowed down a bit. Time to make a run for it! A few moments later I was attaching an end of the tent to the posts that I had snapped into place. With a small flashlight in my mouth I was leaning over trying to block some of the rain from spilling into the still exposed open mesh of the tent about to be my home for the night.
Hiking for me is that sense of unrushed urgency. We are always going to get wet; the only question is how much and can we keep it from pour down our sleeves.
I have a new backpack, it’s still breaking me in. She weighed in at 32 pounds with the bladder half full but both water bottles empty. She and I had decided to go on a diet together and we were pretty happy with 32. On the first day after a few hours of hiking, I fell into a really good stride. The pack was sitting just right. I figured out how to get the straps of the trekking poles wrapped around my wrist and under my thumb so that I effortlessly swing the poles way out then tighten my grip and pull the whole Earth towards me.
I'm not sure if the triple protein power bar advertising scientifically released bursts of energy had just kicked in, but after a long incline, instead of being winded, my whole body felt alive. I could almost picture the chain gang of cells frantically shuffling oxygen down one side and carbon dioxide on the other. I think our bodies were designed to be beasts of burden, but we decide to carry the wrong thing much of the time. Out here, I only care what I need and what will sustain me.
On the ride home, muscles groups throughout my body sing out in a chorus of aching. I have two blisters on the back of each heel. My hair is all knotted up, I haven't shaved in days. I have dirt in quite a few places and smell bad in all the others. But somehow I can’t say I feel bad.
When we pull up to filling station and stop for refreshments I look at the inside door handle next to me. It’s definitely not going to open itself and exhaustion has already dictated that no unnecessary movements are allowed, so I sink back into the seat and watch the world outside me. When the others return, we enthusiastically (albeit a mellow mature enthusiasm) discuss the upcoming big hike in the fall. What's there not to absolutely love about hiking?
I find the finite nature of the list to be very comforting. There isn’t much else in life that can be this completely known. If it’s not included on the list, it ceases to exist. My world is reduced to what I am carrying on my back. Hiking for me is that sense of completeness coming from this focused containment. I think as humans we have special circuitry in our head that fires when we enter this state. It’s like reaching the end of a puzzle.
Last night we pulled into Graves something state park just after dark. There was a torrential downpour outside the car. The headlights revealed a completely soaked campsite. I could almost hear it saying "Come on out, I dare you," as the light shined back at us.
We waited about half an hour until it slowed down a bit. Time to make a run for it! A few moments later I was attaching an end of the tent to the posts that I had snapped into place. With a small flashlight in my mouth I was leaning over trying to block some of the rain from spilling into the still exposed open mesh of the tent about to be my home for the night.
Hiking for me is that sense of unrushed urgency. We are always going to get wet; the only question is how much and can we keep it from pour down our sleeves.
I have a new backpack, it’s still breaking me in. She weighed in at 32 pounds with the bladder half full but both water bottles empty. She and I had decided to go on a diet together and we were pretty happy with 32. On the first day after a few hours of hiking, I fell into a really good stride. The pack was sitting just right. I figured out how to get the straps of the trekking poles wrapped around my wrist and under my thumb so that I effortlessly swing the poles way out then tighten my grip and pull the whole Earth towards me.
I'm not sure if the triple protein power bar advertising scientifically released bursts of energy had just kicked in, but after a long incline, instead of being winded, my whole body felt alive. I could almost picture the chain gang of cells frantically shuffling oxygen down one side and carbon dioxide on the other. I think our bodies were designed to be beasts of burden, but we decide to carry the wrong thing much of the time. Out here, I only care what I need and what will sustain me.
On the ride home, muscles groups throughout my body sing out in a chorus of aching. I have two blisters on the back of each heel. My hair is all knotted up, I haven't shaved in days. I have dirt in quite a few places and smell bad in all the others. But somehow I can’t say I feel bad.
When we pull up to filling station and stop for refreshments I look at the inside door handle next to me. It’s definitely not going to open itself and exhaustion has already dictated that no unnecessary movements are allowed, so I sink back into the seat and watch the world outside me. When the others return, we enthusiastically (albeit a mellow mature enthusiasm) discuss the upcoming big hike in the fall. What's there not to absolutely love about hiking?
