Story Break: On Backpacks

Story Break

On Backpacks.

By Citron Ella

Hi. Nice to see you back here again. Kind of surprising, really, but welcome. Assuming you even know who I am. If you've read something I've written before, then you have an idea, but maybe not.

I'm a woman and I go backpacking. I'll never be famous, and though it might be fun to try it out for a while, I'll never be rich either. Given the choice I'd rather be rich than famous, but both of them can be rough on a person, though it is easier to be in a position where you can get anything you want, and do anything you want, and be totally anonymous.

Not like it's going to happen to me, but sometimes I daydream.

The absolute best daydreams I have are about real things. That's a strange little statement, I know, because any daydream is not real by definition, but I think you might get my drift. What I mean is, I guess, that I think about things I've done or know something about. I don't daydream about being a princess in a sparkly pink princess dress with princess ruffles all over it. Any more. I did. I used to. Every girl probably does. Most of us grow up.

I grew up, and went backpacking. No more ruffles for me any more, not even in my daydreams. Now I think about hardware.

You can call it that. Let's. We'll call it hardware.

Hardware is all the stuff you need for backpacking, plus everything you buy for backpacking but don't need, plus all those things you buy and sort of run into every time you clean out the closet, but decide over and over that you can't throw away, but that you don't actually use much, if at all.

Hardware is part of it. It isn't all hard. They aren't all wares.

Some of what I think over and carry around in my head is memories, or plans. I think about trips I've made and the people I've made them with, and I think about trips I'd like to make. And who I want to be when I grow up, which kind of gets us back to being a princess again, I guess, but I've never heard of a married princess with children, so no matter what, I'm kind of permanently beyond that, I think. Maybe.

I must be grown up now, too. Am I?

But I like backpacking. I like a lot about it, maybe most of it. Maybe all of it, everything, including the parts that don't seem to be fun at the time, which is generally the larger part. You know, when you're walking along and everything is great, and maybe you're on top of a ridge, in the sun, and you can look down on what seems like all the world, or anyway, all the important parts, and it's all stunning and everything, and you don't really think about it so much?

You get involved in looking but you don't consciously think about how much better you feel than you ever did, let alone yesterday when you were wet and cold. You simply soak in the sun and cruise along the trail and kind of wallow in wonder, but it isn't really at a conscious level. You just feel good without getting carried away. And in a way that makes up for everything else, on some level, but you aren't really keeping score.

But you do notice the other times too, like when you ate your lunch too soon and burned your tongue and you felt that mistake right there on your tongue all the rest of the day. Or especially when you're wet, even if you aren't cold too. Or you have a bit of rock in your shoe, let alone being hungry or pestered by flies.

It always seems kind of strange to admit, that of all the gizmos and doodads and odd little things they make for backpacking and sell to backpackers, I'm kind of stuck on my pack. My pack is my main piece of hardware, the center of my walking universe. It plays a very special role by holding everything together, and for that I'm grateful.

But for me, the ideal pack could also do some things I don't often hear about. Things I don't really ever hear about, come to think of it.

Catching dreams is one thing.

Going backpacking is itself like a dream, sort of an ideal activity. An activity that people sometimes dream of doing. And they dream about it because they don't think they can do it. But they could. It takes only a little organization and then you go. You learn as you go. We all do. Just start with baby steps and after a while you are taking big steps without really noticing the transition. That's a kind of magic, all by itself.

But even while I am actually out backpacking there are other dreams. They come to me from all over.

I think a lot while I'm walking. There is something about walking that does that. I think about this and I think about that. Whole worlds come by for a visit. Entire empires of thought, and if I don't stop and jot down a few of these thoughts, they waft away again. But it's always awkward to stop and scribble. I'd like a backpack that would hold all my good ideas for me and keep them bright and fresh for later.

Whenever a charming thought comes to me, I'd like to just hold out my hand and let the thought land on my finger. Then I'd give it a little flip and it would go over my shoulder and the pack would catch it, and hide it away safe and snug for later.

When I got home I could sit on my bed and gently dump out all my good ideas and daydreams right in the middle of the bed and let them run around and sort themselves out for me. Let them show me what they really are.

This would be so much better than staring at a dirty, dogeared, rumpled pocket notebook full of strange scribbles, few of which I could understand.

I think.

Another thing I'd like to see in a backpack is one I could empty out, and then, when it was lying there on the ground flat and seemingly empty, I could grab one edge and open it up so wide it was big enough to walk into, and then I'd go in, and let it shut behind me, and I would be in a different world.

It could be a safe refuge in a storm, or a cool hideaway in the heat, or it could lead me to a warm sunny beach if the real weather, the weather blowing around outside, was blustery and cold.

With a pack like that I'd always have a place to go and get away from things no matter where I was, even at home. You know what I mean. Think about having one of these on a dull Saturday when you can't get out and don't have anything to do. And the kids are making a mess. Or your husband is. See?

But that isn't all.

A pack, the right pack, can be an inspiration. It has possibilities, it takes care of things for you. True, any backpack is like that, and mostly, to be absolutely honest, it all depends on you.

If you have no dreams to start with then nothing can really inspire you. But I find, when I'm just rambling around the house at odd times, and I happen to see my backpack, I find that I remember once again that there are things I still want to do. There are places I haven't gone yet, and want to go to. There are experiences I haven't had, perhaps with people I haven't met, and I want to go there and see those places and meet those people.

Simply coming face to face with my pack every now and then gives me a little tingle. A little one, but still a tingle. That keeps me primed, keeps me alive. I like that.

What a pack doesn't do for me, what no pack can do for me, is to make it happen.

I'm always in charge though I'm always learning as well. There are things you need to know that you can't get from reading brochures about packs, or from playing with packs, or from sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and wondering what it would be like to do this thing or to do that thing, or do something else.

You have to want it first, and then you have to actually do it, and only then is it done. And a backpack helps.

If you really are a backpacker, that is.

How about you?

What's That Humpy Thing On Your Back?

What's That Humpy Thing On Your Back?

Introduction to what a backpack is.

– Start. –

Here is A Quick Introduction To What A Backpack Is. I say this so that you won't be frightened by finding a quick introduction to what a backpack is in a chapter that is named A quick introduction to what a backpack is. Or surprised not to find directions for replacing the roller bearings in the camshaft of your D9 Caterpillar.

So, ready, then?

Here goes.

Being contrary, I'll start small, with pack, and tell you what I don't mean.

After that we'll see if we can express what we do mean when we say pack and then sneak up on backpack, and then finish off with a definitive description of the sucker (i.e., The Backpack).

Ready?

– Don't Think This. –

As we mean it here pack is not a cream that cleanses and tones the skin. Not for us manly men. You may be different, but I have skin, and so far it has frequently come in handy, but I don't get fancy with it. I wear it around during the day, wash it once in a while (no bleach, no iron, tumble dry on low) and don't futz it with creams, cleansers or toners. No one has complained yet, at anything above a whisper. To my face.

I'm also not thinking of pack as meaning to compress into a wad. We're really looking more for nouns than verbs here anyway.

This leaves out the old, honorable and peculiar Washington State definition of carry, as carrying something on one's back: "Pack them chickens out to the barn, Ma, and we'll give 'em each a whack on the neck with that there hatchet afore we stew 'em." It does make a person drool a bit though. I have to admit that. Can I lick the hatchet when you're done, Pa?

A pack is also not a number of things, as it is sometimes in other contexts.

Not a battalion.

Not some large quantity or other indefinite number of anything ranging around and getting into trouble. This might be clearer if you think of a pack of rats for example, as in some number of rats in a loose, self-organizing association, swarming the landscape.

Not that.

Try also not to think of a rack of Pats, or of Patricias. Do not form an image of a troupe of tapeworms or a flying swarm of Sunday-school teachers. We don't mean pack in that sense.

Maybe that last one isn't quite appropriate. Where I come from they're never referred to by the word swarm. They're always packs. Some enterprising souls even trap them commercially using nets, in winter, when their fur is thickest. The Sunday-school teachers I mean.

Tapeworms don't have any fur to speak of that I've ever noticed, though some of them are more cuddly, in my experience, than most Sunday-school teachers I have met.

– No Verbs Allowed. –

Since we're not talking verbs we can't say that pack means to unfairly weight, as in packing a jury. Not that we'd do that sort of thing, unless in great need, but still.

We would never consider packing an umbrella for safety, not even to a lawn bowling tournament, much less packing a six-shooter, unless it was a very special kind of lawn bowling tournament and required a judicious choice of armament.

A pack isn't a gang ("Police today broke up a notorious pack of investment bankers that have been infesting that big shiny building down on Main Street.")

No.

A pack is not a group of hunting animals either. Not for us. Think packs of carnivorous bunnies. Not them, not any of them. Let's move on.

A pack is not a collection of things. Whoever said that is nuts. That doesn't even make sense. That's the last time I ever look up anything on the internet.

A pack is not a container or parcel, or a package containing playing cards or cigarettes or tiny lozenges of chilled lard. Not as we mean it. Not even close.

A pack is not a throng pressed tightly together, or what a throng can be said to be doing as it compresses. We are completely uninterested in whatever it is that throngs may be getting up to these days, either in public or in private. We are innocent parties and try to mind our own business and wish that more of you all would do the same, especially when it comes to that thronging and compressing.

A pack ain't a clique. It ain't an exclusive circle of people. Anyway, as a hint, we'll say that packs are used more often to include than to exclude. Remember, that's only a hint now - you'll get more info a bit later so don't get all tingly just yet.

Pack the faucet is a good one, and you may say it every now and then, out of habit if you've been brought up by plumbers. But you'd be wrong to do so in this context. Not here, not now, as they say. We don't want you to carry a faucet or to cram packing material into it.

Do they even do that sort of thing any more? We don't care, so let's drop it right now. Get modern already.

Now when we get to pack in the sense of a blanket that may be either wet or dry, or a sheet that may be either dry or wet, and think of wrapping it therapeutically around someone's body, especially someone pretty yummy, or even sometimes not quite yummy but sort of OK, someone who will do in a pinch, are we using the word pack in anything like an appropriate sense, as related, say, to backpacking?

No.

Masses of frozen sea ice? No.

Storing data in a compact and compressed form? No.

Does the Scrum template work with the latest Visual Studio service pack? No. Not for us.

What the Federal Aviation Administration means when it refers to a parachute that includes everything (canopy, container, pilot chute, connector links, suspension lines, risers) but not the harness? No, and what are they up to with that? Are these adults at work here? No harness? The FAA? Do they operate with our tax money?

OK, nuff foolin. Pay attention.

Now.

– Think humps. The good kind. –

A pack is an artificial, hollow hump that straps onto your body.

So you can cram stuff inside it and wear it to walk around and look cool and all.

The idea is to pack (or shove) things inside (into) a (the) pack (the hollow humpy thing) until it is full of stuff, and then keep on doing that for a while until you are right on the verge of a rip roaring explosion, and then do a little more to tempt fate and prove how strong your forearms are, and then cinch it shut tight and put the whole thing on your body and walk around.

Packs are really best for people who have always wanted to be old codgers but who couldn't wait to superannuate and grow that bony hump. And packs are kind of neat because with a pack, see, you put it on, and then later you take it off again and fake being normal whenever you want to, even if you actually feel better and look more natural with a hump.

Now the special sort of pack we're talking about here is a backpack.

We call them backpacks because these are packs that get strapped only onto the back, which is the right place to simulate the most common sort of hump. Humps look more settled on a person's back, more humpy, and don't get tangled up in stray body parts the way they would if we wore them around our knees, or over our faces, or maybe inside our pants.

Those others would be your knee packs, your face packs, and your codpieces. But not your backpacks. Nope!

There were codpieces once upon a time. Once upon a time men did have this other kind of pack. Not kneepacks or facepacks. Or trouser packs exactly, but there was a pack that went with pants. Such packs were in fact called codpieces, and they went on the front, down low, somewhere below the belt. (Let's make it into a game and see if you can guess exactly where.) They (the codpieces) could have been used for ballast but were mostly decorative for most of their history.

Lest they overbalance the wearer codpieces were kept on the small side, relatively speaking. Normally they were well under the 80 liter mark that so many modern packs reach, and were never advertised as expedition-size. Most often these codpieces were used to carry softer more delicate personal items that might be susceptible to cold breezes and the occasional stray nippy dog, but codpieces were also pressed into service as coin and snuff holders. (This is documented in the history books, folks!)

But mostly codpieces were fashion statements. The male kind of fashion statement.

Guys.

Go figure.

Surprised yet?

I didn't think so.

Although it looks like codpieces enlarged as time went by (as car engines have been known to do each time the model year ticks over), they remained mainly decorative though some later and larger specimens may have been handy for carrying weapons or snacks. This ranks the late codpiece as an early cousin of today's smallest fanny pack, worn backward, over the abdomen, and far too low.

But let's say you aren't especially interested in carrying a pen knife, a few coins, a bus pass, and a sandwich in your crotch purse, or in stepping into a doublet and tights for a fun day of intrigue at the royal court. Let's say you might want to go hiking, and stay out overnight, and not have people point at you and make disrespectful or even hurtful remarks.

That's when you ditch the codpiece and grab the backpack.

Having left the middle ages behind, we are nowadays more utilitarian and tend to hike and sleep and watch TV a lot more than we go to war on horseback, get shot full of arrows, poked by swords, or burned at the stake for heresy. So these days the modern pack has really come into its own.

OK, we've got the humpy part down. Hump = pack.

And the hump-on-the-back part, which turns our ordinary humpy pack into a true backpack.

So what's the deal then?

– Suction? Will that work? No. –

Well, backpack is a flexible term. To keep a pack on your back you need some way to hold it there, to fasten it in place so it remains a back pack.

Suction cups and metal hooks will do it, but they have downsides. Bolts are out too. And nails. Glue is messy and unreliable, maybe even toxic. Wire takes you back to the metal hook side of the fence, and twine is scratchy and you have to keep tying it and retying it all day.

So our distant ancestors developed the idea of the strap.

A strap is a flexible band that attaches to the pack at two points, forming a loop. We put our arms through these loops and settle the pack onto the back, with the weight resting on our shoulders. These simple loops have now become shoulder straps. Believe it or not though, shoulder straps predate the backpack itself.

No, this is not a joke based on the gownless evening strap, though that is still an interesting idea. Interesting to some.

Shoulder straps were first developed centuries ago when what would become the backpack was still worn on the front of the body. It was, in effect, a frontpack. In the same way that the codpiece (Middle English: cod + pece) was a piece that held the cod (the bag as male anatomy was referred to then), the frontpack, frontisepack, or frontispak (Latin: front + Middle Low Flemish: humpy thing) was a pack that hung on the front of the body where it obscured vision, interfered with balance, and caused the wearer to stumble around and bump into things while looking humpy but also looking, unfortunately, severely odd.

But that was acceptable if you were one of the expendables and it was wartime. You were fitted with a frontispack, had it loaded with rocks, and were sent out to deal with the enemy whenever your overlord experienced a fit of aggression and didn't mind sacrificing a few hundred nonentities like you.

The method was to reach into your conveniently-located front pack, pull out a rock or two and heave them at the enemy.

When the battle got hot, heavy, and close, you would engage in pack-to-pack combat by running at your opponent and ramming him with your stone-laden front-hump. And in fact this is where we get the term humping though over the centuries its meaning has mutated and moved toward the private end of the lexicon.

Today that word (humping) still refers to something dangerous, occasionally rude (not to mention messy), but only partly warlike, and typically shorter in duration than the Hundred Years' War. Usually now (though not always) not referring to two large, hairy, smelly, noisy, and aggressive men having at each other with extreme nastiness at close range.

Since all the best things emerge slowly through painful trial and error it took several hundred years for the frontispack to evolve into the backpack and become an accouterment of peaceable recreation.

No one can say for certain if the frontispack crept up over the head and shoulders and then downward to reach the back, or if it slithered first down between the legs and then up the backside, or if it split into to two parts, one part migrating under each arm to then coalesce at the back again, but it seems to have happened suddenly one day, perhaps at the beginning of hiking season, on a warm afternoon late in June of one very special year that is lost in the mists of history.

No one is certain.

But it could have happened that way, couldn't it?

Go ahead, admit that you want it to be true.

– Back to the codpiece. –

Although the actual codpiece as a component of male attire slowly faded entirely from the fashion catalog of history over the course of the last 500 years, its basic utility (which it shares with all packs), never vanished entirely from the human subconscious.

First, in recent years, small fanny packs caught on, and proved handy for stashing doughnuts, toting wallets, hauling cell phones, secreting spare change, tucking hankies, stowing pocket cameras, gloves and so on.

Second, these packs began rotating from back to front, some clockwise, some counter-clockwise, but coming to rest at the front of the body as a sort of zippered codflap over the wearer's whodunnit region.

So now we have not a protruding milepost of male vanity but a convenient way for dorks and the elderly to carry their doodads.

So there you are. Great story ain't it?

Of course it's true. It should be true, and therefore it is true.

Story Break: Trail Shung, And Fwei Too

Story Break

Trail Shung, And Fwei Too.

By Pat

As you know if you are attuned to Shung Fwei, this is the Year of the Flaming Weasel. What does this mean for prosperous and harmonious backpacking? If anything?

Well, I am here to tell you, being a Certified Practitioner of the Ancient Art of Shung Fwei, holder of a Third-Degree Purple Belt (with tassels), and what I say is "Kung Hei Fat Boy! May you have blister free walking now!"

Armed with my frequently-updated analysis of what the Heavenly Energies have in store for us, and having been recently moved out of a very successful marketing career with assistant duties in purse sales, I think I can say I know what you need as a backpacker. In fact, it is so obvious that anyone should be able to tell, just by a glance in your general direction, or a quick throw of the sticks.

For example, focusing on individual animal signs, with one eye on what the Flaming Weasel is up to these days, it is clear that the next 12 months will be good for those born under the signs of the Chipmunk, Manatee, Sidehill Gouger, Hoedad, Chub-Chub, or Moo-Cow. I mean, obvious, right? Everyone knows that.

On the other hand, if you are a Rabbit, Sheep, Monkey, Ox, Doofus, Dik-Dik, or Dildo, then you may well see some challenging times coming your way. But again, how surprising should that be?

Your Shung Fwei Chart fully illustrates each detail of this and should have alerted you by now. If you don't have a personalized Shung Fwei Chart yet, just drop by, OK? We will soon get you beyond any seductive negativity, into a curing regime of self-enhancement, by preparing a Chart. I also offer family discounts, so stop by soon.

Of the five elements (Water, Wood, Fire, Earth, and Metal), we need to decide which is most relevant in the area of backpacks and backpacking. Note that there is no Nylon Ripstop Element, no Spectra or Dyneema, no Cordura, not even a hint of Ballistic Cloth or even a Canvas Element to be found anywhere in the above list.

Do not be dismayed.

At first you may feel distressed, but this is why you need a Certified Practitioner of the Ancient Art of Shung Fwei, for whom everything impossibly confusing is actually trivial. The Elements have come to us from ancient times, when there was not even the dream of Silnylon, let alone Cuben Fiber, but the fundamental principles still do apply. These principles tell us that what your backpack is made of (or even its size, weight, and style) is truly much less important than its color.

For example, Brown is friendly, rich, and grounded, like dirt, or poop (which belongs on the ground), right?

Blue may be the color of water and peace, but it is also the color of adventure and exploration.

Green of course represents life, growing energy, and a mellow, organic high.

And let's not forget Gray. Gray is the color of security, reliability, and durability. Durability is important in a backpack, don't you think? I do, sometimes.

You may surmise that if you weld together a backpack from thick Metal plates, then it will be durable, but not if it is Pink. Pink is the color of love, baby girls, feminine allure, and slumber parties, not backpacks. Pink will defeat all backpacking attempts unless you are a genuinely girly girl. Is this you?

Likewise, White.

White represents marriage, peace, union, and translucent draperies.

So White is then a timely but sad reminder if you are in sore need of new draperies, or have just seen your marriage crash and burn. Your seemingly invincible White welded Metal pack would then feel depressingly heavy and would not serve your needs well at all. It would only bum you out.

Or say your pack was Silver. Well, trustworthiness is not bad, and that is a quality of the Silver color, but do you need romance, glamor, a high tech feel, or a dreamlike experience on the trail? Probably not, especially if you are watching out for snakes.

We Certified Practitioners of the Ancient Art of Shung Fwei are aware of these subtleties and can be of great service for an actually nominal fee, if averaged out over your hiking lifetime, may it be long, as it will be if you keep your monthly payments up to date.

Recently in a relaxing, pre-event dinner attended by many other energetic Practitioners, Yours Truly enjoyed the company of similarly Highly Accomplished Individuals who also straddle the worlds of Shung Fwei and backpacking, just as Myself does. This should be a hint. After dinner was the event, an exposition on the Primary Element for the Year of the Flaming Weasel.

That Element is Metal.

Back to Metal we go! Could you guess?

How surprising is that? Not!

Of all the five elements, Metal is by far the most important this year because the Flaming Weasel is both a natural force and a dangerous one, as you know if one has ever run through camp and into your tent.

The Flaming Weasel's most serious characteristics (the flames, of course, but also its teeth and claws) are inflicted on the Earth element, so necessary to support your backpacking, but they are also significant hazards to the Wood element, not to mention your tent, no matter how precisely it is aligned with the Force. And then there is the skin of your face and arms to think about.

A good way to ensure protection against such afflictions this year is first, as noted, to choose a pack of the proper color. The proper color serves to deflect weasels of all kinds, not just the flaming ones, and does not even require batteries to work. This should be a strong hint right there.

Beyond color, ensure the proper balance of Elements. For your pack, and luckily for you, only one is needed: Metal.

But it does not have to be Heavy Metal, or even Middle Metal, though for maximum self-defense purposes a bar of solid iron is always handy to carry, such as a two foot length of re-bar. But for a pack, no, do this instead: Guarantee that your pack contains sufficient quantities of Metal in a Propitious Surrounding Configuration, and this does not need to be heavy at all.

Vain hikers often try using jewelry or decorative chains strung here and there, but jewelry is ineffective on most trails, not being specifically designed for backpacking, and looks cheap as well, and may clash with your outfit.

It is much better to lightly coat your new pack with an all-organic adhesive and then sprinkle liberally with pure powered aluminum. Or to save money, use boob glitter.

Both of these deflect sunlight, in effect symbolically protecting you from both the Heat of the Sun, and the Hairy Eye of the Flaming Weasel. Because of my divinations deep into the Shung Fwei Esotery (nothing of which I am allowed to share here, so sorry), I have determined that actual Metal is not in fact even necessary as long as the appearance of Metal is maintained.

Thus the suggestion about boob glitter, which is not, as is often thought, even Metal, though it appears so, which is good enough. And it is much less costly. Besides, who even knows what they're putting into aluminum these days anyway?

As in so many aspects of life, appearances are all that really matter, which gets us right back to color, so you may be beginning to get a feel for circular reasoning, the very foundation of Shung Fwei, and why we Certified Practitioners of the Ancient Art of Shung Fwei need to charge what we do.

So, this is all to the good but Metal is only one third of the story. The other two parts are, as in most endeavors, entirely Luck.

Luck comes in two flavors, Heavenly Luck and Mankind Luck.

Heavenly Luck is often the only thing you have to save the place where your tail resides, when you otherwise have no hope at all, so try to stay on the good side of Heaven if you value your tail, and the place it grows from.

Unlike Heavenly Luck though, Mankind Luck comes to individuals who work hard at enhancing their true Fwei-Nature, by constant practice, by doing good deeds, by hard work, by learning and using proper food hanging techniques, and by paying consulting fees on time to their Certified Practitioners of the Ancient Art of Shung Fwei.

Slight cheating is also acceptable in certain circumstances, but never with regard to the invoice.

Beyond all that, get a decent pack from an established company, keep it clean and in good repair, and as always, try before you buy. Keep your receipt.

Other services I provide include in-home or online consultations, corporate seminars, laying on of hands, Shung Fwei slumber parties, gift certificates, marital, investment, and fashion advice, real estate sales, and upbeat, tear-free no-cry funerals.

To receive a free Shung Fwei Tips Brochure, just think good thoughts. Need a website designed? I do that too. Also house-sitting and dog walking, day or night. Just whistle. (Two long and one short. I'll come running.)

This Backpacking, It Is What

This Backpacking, It Is What?

Let's make some sense of this.

– A Quick Introduction. –

You put your left foot in front of your right foot. You did this already, a while ago, but not too long ago. In fact, it was only a moment ago. You remember it. Because it just happened, and because you don't have anything else to think about.

Now you repeat, with the other foot. And again, and again. This is living. This is life. This is your life. This is.

It's not quite true to say that you have nothing else to think about. You do, really. Your last meal, your next meal, where you're going to find water (or not), where you'll get to wash and when (or not), and where you'll camp tonight.

Throw in some thoughts about the weather and that sweaty spot on your back, the one that's always there, under your pack, and that's about it. This is your life. Today. And maybe tomorrow. It all depends.

It depends on how long you planned to do this and on how long you can actually keep it up. You know. Like the rest of your life.

Or not.

You have another life.

Back home.

Somewhere.

At least you can remember a home, but it surprises you just how fast you've forgotten to worry about most of what happens there.

That life and that home are back there somewhere, behind you, and you now think this way.

Back there.

Behind you.

Opposite to the direction you're going today.

You begin to think of that life as your so-called life. As an unfinished story that never quite made it into print.

And when you turn around and look back you don't see that life.

No.

You see a section of trail bearing your footprints. And you might see only 20 feet of trail, or six miles, but no mind. It's all part of you now.

You've left your mark. You've claimed it. You own it, but you don't feel jealous and afraid when you see someone else walking on your trail, not the way you would if you saw someone else sitting in your car, or wearing your clothes, or in your bed.

It isn't that kind of ownership. It's more like a level of achievement. You own the achievement but not the place where it happened.

You have another life now, and this is it.

You walk for a living.

For some reason or another.

It really doesn't matter any more, does it? You just do it. This is what you do. You walk.

Maybe you had a goal when you set out. "I'm going from here to there" you might have told someone as you pointed out marks on a map. Or "I'm going to hike all the way around this" or "Out along this loop and back."

That was the plan. Maybe you keep to it and stay on schedule. And maybe you don't.

You find that schedules are an awkward fit for this new life.

The sun is your clock now, and sun is a blunt instrument, as clocks go. You roll out of bed when daylight comes and roll back in when daylight goes. You eat because of hunger. You drink because of thirst. You bathe because you stink.

You leave your waste in small holes. You become part of the landscape. You become the landscape. That is how you come to own it. Because it comes to own you.

There is no certificate to measure your accomplishment. You get no plaque. You don't inherit a triumph on a scheduled day of the calendar, like some Roman emperor of old. Things don't work that way on the trail. Meals don't become mandatory after so many clock ticks. You get to choose when. You have to choose. When.

When you want to.

When you can do.

You scratch and grunt and squint. You feel around for the right moment to do things. You make more important choices but within a narrower range of possibilities. There isn't that much to do, but it's up to you where and when and how you do it, according to your needs, according to your circumstances.

The price of admission to this game is determination, physical fitness, curiosity, and a tolerance for things that people say they dislike. Effort. Dirt. Chance. Heat. Cold. Bugs. Lack of toys.

You plan, based on experience. You know you have to eat and brush your teeth, and you might get a cut or a blister. You know all that. Because you learned about all that the hard way.

And you know you'll need some extra clothes, and a way to stay warm and dry overnight.

You learned that too. The hard way.

You begin picking up this useful knowledge about the time you begin picking things up off the floor and sticking them into your mouth, when you're young. If you pay attention you get by. You cope. It's not too hard. It grows on you. But it takes a long time to realize that you've learned something, and what to do with your knowledge.

Getting into backpacking takes a little concentration.

At first.

At first you see this big undefined blob out there and you try to puzzle your way into it. Really now, everything is like that. You poke at the blob and see what happens. You try this and you try that. Everyone who can walk can backpack.

First you walk, then you hike, and then, if you want, you backpack. Things build on each other. It works like that.

You need to know how to walk. You need to know how to hike. You need to know how to feed and clothe and bathe yourself, and how to make it through the average night alone.

Then you learn about the not-average nights.

In due time.

When the knowledge is ready to come to you. Whether you are ready or not.

You learn about rain and about snow and about wind. And bad judgment.

You get brighter as you go along, but it doesn't all come together on graduation day. It can't.

There is no graduation day.

There is no certificate.

You have to do it the hard way.

That's good. It feels more real. Because it is.

Real.

– You. –

You are a person who can walk, and carry something, and who wants to try lengthening your tether. You still have to keep a line tied to something back in The Real World™ because that's where you come from, and it has the pots and pans and sleeping bag factories and dried foods and gloves and unstained, untorn maps and all that.

It has the things you need. And the people.

You need people.

You always need that connection.

You always need that tether, but you can lengthen it in time, and use an ever slimmer line. But every now and then you do need to reel yourself in, back along that long thin line, gently, and go home again.

– What. –

What you are doing is attenuating your circumstances. Using your wealth adeptly. Relying on your intelligence and flexibility.

If you normally drive to work you might spend $30,000 on a car. Or thereabouts. Then you drive that car. Around. Very big, very expensive, very impressive. Around. And back. You drive.

Everyone sees you. You see them. Every one watching and you watching every one back.

You see yourself.

In plate glass windows lining the streets. You become a legend in your own mind. Not that you need a car, really, but the game works that way.

In backpacking you put both feet down and then you move them. Move them the right way, and you walk. How about that now? You use so little yet manage to cover so much distance in such an amazing way.

Surprise.

You surprise yourself.

Look at those feet. Those two humble miracles. That mark the ends of your legs. How can they do it?

A $30,000 car takes you six miles to work and back. Three hundred dollars of backpacking gear takes you to another life and back.

Just move your feet the right way.

Just move your feet.

– How. –

How you do it comes naturally, maybe with a little practice, but you know the basics.

You walk.

You have a bag, and you put your things in that, and then you wing it.

There's really an endless variety of ways you can do your backpacking thing and that's OK. No one cares.

No one cares. Some people care, but they don't matter.

No one really cares, despite what you may think at first.

If you want to go and backpack you'll leave those people standing inside their tiny, carefully drawn circles repeating tedious sermons to themselves. After a few steps you find that you are out of earshot, so you can no longer even hear them.

And by then, well they have forgotten about you too.

How you backpack is up to you, and it will come naturally in its own time. You decide when you've found what's right for you.

– Where. –

Where you go is easy: wherever you want. There is a good-enough place nearby no matter where you live.

Earth is nice that way.

There are tricky spots, but you can go around them. Pick and choose. Think it through.

Find your way around whatever, and toward whatever. Be fanciful or practical.

Whatever.

Works.

You are in charge.

Going for six months and 2000 miles can change your life.

So can expanding 10 days of vacation into two and a half months of three-day weekends. This clicks up your efficiency a notch or two in handy bites.

Slow down. Take time to experience an unimpressive piece of local landscape. Maybe you'll be impressed. When you and the landscape get to know each other.

The slow lane may offer more than enough excitement to part your hair.

Rocks and streams and critters and clouds don't know if they're famous or not. But they can teach the lessons you need to learn.

If you want to learn them.

No matter where you are, famous or not.

– When. –

When you go is up to you. It's related to where, isn't it?

Sure.

If you want to make that once in a lifetime trip then you have to schedule it for once in a lifetime. Which may be another reason for doing many close-in, short, little trips. When gets easier then.

Less fuss more often. But less.

Whenever.

Shorter trips mean less risk, lower pack weights, less overhead all around, and more practice for you. You get better without trying hardly at all. Do it now, do it then. Miss this weekend, go next. Keep it mellow.

The mark of a good parent is not in being perfect but in making the right mistakes, and that's the mark of a good person living a good life in any respect, backpacking included.

Make mistakes.

Make interesting ones.

Make them often.

You are still a good person.

And now you have stories to tell.

– Why. –

Why you do it is again more personal. It's your secret, but one of those questions that people feel they have to ask you.

It's more fun to tell afterward what you did and how much excitement and fun you had than to puzzle about why you should go.

So go.

This isn't like founding a corporation. You will not be investigated by Congress or graded by Miss Wilson.

Why you go backpacking is because you want to. Go then.

Did your mother ever tell you do to something or not to do something Just because?

"Just because!"

She said that when you wouldn't shut up and do it or quit doing it. Whatever it was.

But now it is your turn.

To say that.

Reason enough. You are an adult, aren't you?

Why do you want to go backpacking then? "Just because."

Or. "Because it's something I like to do."

Or. "I'm not really sure."

Or. "I feel good out there."

Or. "It makes me feel real."

Or. "Try it. Then you'll understand. It's a thing."

Good enough. On a scale of pass/fail, you pass. But who cares?

No one cares.

Backpacking will make you tough. It will give you air to breathe. As much air as you want, really. As much as you need. As much as you can handle. But no more.

You find that, on the trail, you can't wait to get into bed at the end of the day. Just so you can lie there and daydream until you wake up to a sky full of stars. And then fall asleep again when it's time to.

You learn self-sufficiency.

You become fluid and precise in your movements. You see miracles all day every day. You are in charge. You have good food to eat no matter how it tastes. And you lose weight while you eat. You are with people you really like even if you are alone.

And you never feel alone.

You have time to think.

You think about which breath was your favorite today. Or not.

You lose your train of thought and know that it will come down the track again sometime. If you were on the right track. And if not, well...

Who cares anyway?

You have time not to think.

No one keeps a chart of your output, or graphs your productivity, and neither do you. No one checks to see if the seat of your chair is warm, or tells you that wearing the right clothes makes you a professional.

You are not expected to speak or to keep quiet. You do not have to memorize your lines. You find that walking and looking are enough to satisfy you, enough to fill the whole day.

You worry, but it is about things. It is not about no-things.

Q: Do you have food?
A: Most likely. I think so. I hope so.

Q: How do you cross the next stream?
A: Appropriately, if possible.

Q: What about that blister?
A: Now there's a thing.

Q: Bugs?
A: Bugs!

And so on.

The concrete things. You think about them.

Stuff that bites and scrapes and stings and chills and cuts and blows and wets and burns and tuckers you out.

But not about stuff that judges and ranks and excludes and hurts and gossips. Or the people who do.

That's why you do it.

Isn't that great?