Sent Packing

As summer began, I was in an increasingly foul mood. The weight of my responsibilities pressed down heavily, and I came home from work irritable and grouchy. Even when I had a holiday in June, I couldn't relax. I felt like I needed to get away from everything for a while. But I didn't, because I felt like I couldn't leave Hanna or our parents with the extra work that would entail; after all, it seemed like I was already leaning on them heavily. So instead of enjoying my vacation, I stewed and sulked and was generally a pain in the ass.

Thankfully, my wife and I are able to talk about everything, and we realized that we were starting to slip into the pattern of not taking care of ourselves again. So when the July 4th holiday gave me another long weekend, she all but demanded that I leave on a backpacking trip I'd been talking about for months.

I went to the grocery store and stocked up on a few things that would be easy to eat or cook while on the trail; dried fruit, granola bars, instant ramen and oatmeal. Hanna took the boys to her dad's house for a cookout, and I retired to the Lair to turn up some metal and stuff my gear into my pack.

It was already well into the afternoon when I started filling my bag, so I was in a bit of a rush if I wanted to get into the woods and set up camp before dark. Thankfully, despite having not been camping seriously in years, packing everything felt natural, practiced. Sleeping bag went in first, followed by the stove I'd borrowed from my dad and the compact cook set I've used for years. Food went in next, in its own sack so as to make it easier to deal with later. The changes of clothes I was bringing with me went in a smaller section of the pack, and my tent and sleeping pad strapped nicely to the outside. I filled the small top pocket of the pack with odds and ends; my head lamp, a spare lighter, a map, some cord, an Ace bandage. I decided against the water filter my father-in-law offered, not wanting the weight or hassle; I grabbed the iodine tablets instead. I looked briefly at the small first-aid kit he had left as well, but (foolishly) left it on the table. Part of my wanting to go backpacking was to point out which bits of my equipment and skills had atrophied, so I figured that anything I forgot to pack, or packed and didn't need, would just be part of the learning experience.

I deliberately shut down both my computer and my phone (despite having just received an invitation to Google Plus), as a symbolic gesture of getting away from everything. The only thing I would take in the woods that need batteries was my head lamp.

On my way out to the Cranberry wilderness area I stopped at my father-in-law's place for a quick bite of food. My parents were also there, celebrating my dad's retirement from the NRAO. Everyone was happy and laid back; the kids were playing, food was cooking, the family was around the fire outside sipping wine and enjoying the air. They all wished me a good time, gave me a plate of food, and told me to stop milling about and get going.

I arrived at the Tea Creek trail-head about three hours before sunset. I got out of the truck and shouldered my pack, pleased to feel that it was as snug and comfortable as I'd remembered, the weight of my gear resting exactly where I wanted it to. I had the odd thought that it felt like the embrace of an old lover excited to see me again. I had a quick look at the map, locked the truck, and started walking up the mountain.

The trail I had chosen follows the creek almost the entire way up, so I had the pleasant sound of running water to my left. The shade from the trees kept me cool, despite the exertion, and the trail was easy walking for the most part. After about an hour and a half, I started wondering where I should spend the night. There was a shelter about halfway along the trail that I had hoped to get to, but evening was catching up to me, and I didn't want to be setting up camp in the dark. When I passed a nice laurel thicket with a flat space just large enough for my tent, I decided to sleep there for the night.

My tent went up quickly in about ten minutes, and I marveled once again at how cleverly it was made. A few more minutes' work and I had my Thermarest out, my sleeping bag arranged, and my food hung in a nearby tree. I'd been more efficient than I expected, so I walked a bit around my campsite and did a couple of patterns to stretch and relax a bit. Finally, it started getting chilly, so I laid down with my book to read, sipping occasionally from my flask of Maker's Mark. I read for maybe two hours -- something that almost never happens at home. Finally, I was getting sleepy, so I turned off my light and was soon asleep, lulled by the sound or rustling leaves and the burble of the creek.

I usually wake up at first light when I'm camping, but I was on vacation, with no plans and no responsibility, so I laid in my bag until hunger and thirst finally drove me to get out and think about breakfast. I filled my tea kettle from the creek, and set my camp stove up to boil some water; the morning was cool, and I was looking forward to a nice cup of tea and a bowl of hot oatmeal. However, instead of sitting in a peaceful setting and enjoying breakfast, I spent the better part of an hour failing to get my stove to run for more than twenty seconds. I had a brief vision of throwing the damned thing into the creek before finally deciding that fighting this infernal device was working directly against my stated goal of relaxation, so I bagged it and the rest of my gear back up, determined to walk to the shelter, build a fire, boil some water, and make a damned cup of tea.

Back on the trail, I met four hikers coming out, as well as their dog, and we chatted for a bit. They were from Ohio, they told me, and asked where I lived. Telling them that my home was only a few miles away made me appreciate how fortunate I am to be living in the Appalachians again. There are all sorts of conveniences that aren't available in the rural part of the country that is again my home, from Thai restaurants to businesses that are actually open on Sunday. But at the same time, many people drive for hours or days to experience what is I have right outside my door.

Continuing on my way, I made it to the shelter in less time than I had thought; it was less than a mile from where I'd camped the night before. The shelter itself was nice, but previous occupants hadn't bothered to clean up after themselves. There were cans strewn about the site, bags of garbage hanging on nails in the shelter, and even someone's shirt in the fire pit for some reason. I took off my pack, and set to work cleaning up the place.

One nice thing was that in addition to all of the garbage, there was also a nice pile of kindling and wood near the fire pit. In a few minutes I had a nice fire going (thanks to birch bark, which is a fantastic way to light a fire), and while that was catching up, I busied myself collecting the trash in a garbage bag I'd found and sweeping out the shelter with a leafy branch I employed as a makeshift broom. Then I filled my tea kettle with water from the creek and set it on the fire to boil.

This second attempt at breakfast went much better than the first. Soon I was sipping hot, black tea from my plastic mug and enjoying two servings of oatmeal. Normally, my first cup of tea in the morning includes both cream and sugar, but I'd forgotten to pack either on this trip. Even so, this cup of tea was the best that I'd had in recent memory. Something about being outside, in the fresh morning air, made this simple, bitter brew better than anything I could remember having at posh places like the Tea House in Boulder.

While enjoying my second cup of tea, I took a look at my map to plan out the rest of my day. Since I'd just gotten the shelter clean and comfortable, I wasn't keen on packing everything back up and heading out again. I decided to walk up to the second shelter at the top of the mountain, leaving my gear where it was. It was 3.5 miles up, according to my map; I figured a leisurely seven mile hike would be a fine way to spend the day.

I grabbed my smaller water bottle and a bag of trail mix, and started walking. I soon found out that the map description wasn't kidding when it said this section of the trail crossed Tea Creek over twelve times. Every few hundred feet, I'd have to pick my way around boulders, trying to avoid 1) falling in the creek and 2) twisting an ankle or knee. Every crossing felt like a minor victory, a literal obstacle in my path that I had overcome.

A little after noon I ascended the last, steep section of trail and arrived at the second shelter. This one was in a much more open space than the first, and had not been fouled by previous campers; it even had a grill and picnic table. I had an enjoyable lunch of dried fruit, granola bars, and water while watching a butterfly sun itself on the picnic table. Then, wanting to get back in the shade of the woods, I set back down the way I'd come.

Walking down the first slope was when I first noticed the pain in my left knee. I've had mild trouble with it off and on for years, most likely due to a combination of genetics and decades of high-impact training in Taekwon-Do. It didn't bother me badly, though I made a mental note to add "Vitamin I" to the list of things to bring next time, since ibuprofen would have helped the inflammation.

Back at my camp site, I started my fire again and rolled out my sleeping bag for the evening in the shelter; no need to bother with the tent, since the Forest Service had provided a roof. While I was waiting for my fire to catch up and water to boil, I began to feel restless. I had all this time on my hands, free of responsibility or duty, in a quiet, peaceful setting, and yet I couldn't get my mind to calm down.

As is always the case when I'm unsure of what to do, I fell back on my training. I found a nice, sunny boulder toward the middle of the creek, and knelt in the seiza posture to meditate. My mind kept racing, however. I tried to focus on my breathing, on the sound of the water all around me, to no avail. Thoughts kept springing unbidden to my mind. I thought about what I needed to do with my personal finances. I thought about letters I needed to write, people I should call. I started to think about who I still needed to invoice for my consulting business, and how best to go about getting more clients. I started composing this blog post. My meditation was even interrupted by my thinking about how I should send email to my instructor asking for advice on how to stop thinking about trivial things while meditating.

Eventually, I gave up on the whole thing and returned to my campfire to boil water for dinner. After a simple yet satisfying meal of noodles, beef jerky, dried fruit, and granola bars, I filled my water bottles with boiled creek water and cleaned up a bit. Then I stoked my fire with a few large logs, hoping to keep it slowly burning overnight so that in the morning I could catch it up quickly for breakfast. Then, after another pull or two of Maker's Mark, I settled down to watch my fire and finish my book.

I read well after dark, until finally the moths and other insects attracted to my head lamp were damaging my calm to the point that I decided I'd rather quit seven pages from the end rather than fight them any longer. With that, I settled down for the night.

I nodded off quickly, but soon woke up to lightning and thunder; a large storm was moving in. I watched the flashes for a long time, the bolts lighting up the world for a fraction of a second, and then plunging everything back into complete darkness. As the strikes got closer, the thunder grew much louder, sometimes to the point that I could feel the shelter rattling underneath me. After half an hour or so of this, the storm settled down and began to pour rain down, quickly killing the remaining coals of my fire. Without the lightning or the glow of the fire I was once again in total darkness, and so I laid down to sleep.

I woke up around first light to find a world refreshed by the rain. I, too, felt renewed; I stretched a bit and walked over to inspect my fire, already thinking of that first cup of tea.

I soon discovered that the night had not, in fact, cured the ache in my knee; if anything, it was more painful than before. Worse still, the right knee was now also aching. I wrapped my Ace bandage around the worse joint, made another mental note to bring ibuprofen and a second bandage next time, and hoped for the best.

My fire wood was completely soaked, and I didn't relish the idea of digging around in the damp undergrowth or cutting limbs trying to find some dry kindling. I took a look at the map, and decided to make the loop back to the truck on another trail; there was a bottle of iced tea in the vehicle that would sate my caffeine addiction, and it was only four miles away. I ate some cold breakfast and packed my gear, then I grabbed the bag of garbage I'd cleaned up around the shelter (in keeping with the practice of packing out more than you pack in), and set off down the mountain.

The going was harder than I expected; the trail was easy and level, following the side of mountain most of the way. There were many places where the path had turned into deep, thick mud, and despite my best efforts to stay dry, my feet were soon soaked. Worse, the pain in my knee was increasing, slowing me down considerably. In a way, this was a benefit; I took my mind off the pain of my joints by paying more attention to my surroundings, enjoying the smell of the air and the view all around me. I started a whitetail deer at one point, and enjoyed watching it bound  effortlessly through the undergrowth even as I was struggling to limp down the mountain.

Eventually, I made it to the steep section of trail, coming off the mountain in one mile, instead of the wandering path I'd followed in the way up. This was the worst section for my knee, but I distracted myself from the pain by planning my next scheme in my D&D game.

The change in getting back to the trail head and associated campground was a bit jarring. People were barbequing on grills, or lounging around in comfortable chairs sipping drinks from coolers. As I was walking around barefoot, enjoying the light feeling that comes from removing 35 pounds of weight from your back and wringing out my socks, a middle-aged gentleman came up to talk. We chatted about the previous night's storm for a bit; he had seen me walk out earlier and was curious as to where I'd been and how far I'd walked. I told him about the trails I'd used, and said I'd walked close to twenty miles over the weekend. He was visibly impressed; he shook his head and smiled, telling me, "Oh, I could never do that!" It was a bit gratifying, actually; I often compare my outdoor skills to those of my family, and considering brother-in-law leads climbs up some of the highest mountains in the world, it's easy to see myself as weak. This guy, however, clearly held me in high esteem for my abilities.

Overall, the trip was a success. Despite my inability to feel like I was relaxed at times, I left the woods feeling much calmer and together, and that attitude has stayed with me in the weeks and months since. My frame of mind was vastly improved, and I felt more "centered" I had in months, possibly years. I'd also discovered that my outdoor skills had not atrophied as much as I'd feared; I might not be able to through-hike the AT just yet, but I can still manage just fine in the mountains with only what I can carry on my back.

There are many books and articles espousing the benefits of communing with Nature; General Choi even lists "mountain climbing" as one of the ways to build a moral culture. I think we, as a society, have removed ourselves too far from Nature and the lessons it teaches. Our lives are filled with conveniences, luxuries, and instant gratification, but we are diminished as a result. One of the benefits of living back in the Appalachians is that I have constant access to these lessons, something I'm looking forward to indulging in more and more.