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?