In the Thick of Things

Seth Godin posted on his blog today about the world of possibilities in relation to a hiker called Wolf who carries 14 pounds of weight on his treks. For you non-hiking, non-camping people out there, 14 pounds is sort of like the four-minute mile: theoretically impossible, but somehow achievable by the elite few.

In the the story Godin referred to, the McDuffy couple was inspired by Wolf. Each time the McDuffy couple returned from their hikes, they gave away more of their stuff, including a boat, pickup, and windsurfer. Ultimately, they stopped paying for insurance on their home and belongings because they knew that they could live, "...in a much smaller house with drastically fewer possessions."

Having just renegotiated my homeowners' insurance and purchased an umbrella policy to further protect all of my things, this story struck a chord with me. Just how much stuff does one person need to survive? How much food, how much furniture, how many cars, how many toys? I probably spend more money on flowers to make my deck pretty each spring than some families spend on food in two months. Then I water those flowers three or four or five times a week, and they die at the end of the season.

In mouse type at the bottom of the article, it says that both of the McDuffys were killed in hit-and-run accidents (two separate accidents two years apart) while riding their bikes. It struck me how unjust that was--they were doing a fantastic job figuring out the whole life thing, and then they were taken from it. But then I realized that they had probably learned all they needed to in this world and were ready to move on to another plane of existence.

My umbrella insurance policy and I are nowhere near that plane, but I am inspired. I am thinking.

The Great Outdoors

Last attempt at camping: disaster. Tomas sat shivering after having an allergic reaction to these tiny little bugs we'd never seen before. And that was the last straw.

Following the advice of an expert, we drove three hours and took a trail off of a trail off of a trail. The campsites were trashed. Piles of ashes everywhere. Fire pits full of beer cans and plastic water bottles. Toilet paper and plastic silverware strewn about. And these are the sites that supposedly no one wants to camp on because there are no facilities.

Then there was the noise pollution. Group after group of people drove by on their ATVs and dirt bikes. (One set of people even had their full race gear on. That shows you how seriously they take their sport.) Each time, you could hear them coming for at least fifteen minutes, and after they'd passed, a fine mist of dirt would settle over the campsite. Oh, and did I mention the gunshots? Apparently we were near enough to a firing range that we heard series of gunshots repeatedly.

But there were quiet times, too. That's when I remembered why on earth we would drive three hours to be at one with nature. Utter silence, and trees and blue sky as far as the eye could see.



Saddened and disgusted, we packed up and left days early.

Reflections on Communing with Nature

Bug spray on top of sweat on top of dirt on top of sunscreen on top of sweat on top of bug spray—a modern girl surviving in the forest

There is absolutely nothing like the constant sound of a babbling brook to set your mind at ease.

When I was a kid, I climbed huge boulders on the sides of mountains and threw rocks in streams to see how deep they were. I still do that.

It takes a few days of being away from civilization for the mind to quiet itself.

We have some things to learn from dogs, like when to lie on the dirt and take naps in the sun.

In the mountains, you must be prepared for fifty degrees of temperature change in one day. In July. No kidding. Really.

“Three-season tent” really means “You’re going to freeze, so you better have a really good sleeping bag and a hat.”

Flexibility and balance come in handy when putting on your long underwear while standing on the tops of your shoes.

Wildflowers are the best, most beautiful flowers of all.

Impressions from a Forest

“Is it sad to camp in a grove of dead trees?” I ask.

“No,” he says, and he means it.

We think we see a specimen of the dreaded pine beetle, the one that’s done the dastardly deed. Whatever it is, it flies with its legs hanging straight down like one of those spacecraft on My Favorite Martian. Its antennae are a little bit longer than its body—creepy--and they remind me of curved, serrated knives. A whole lot of weird in a small package.

One lands on the table next to me. I slide my pen tip up under its head to see what it will do. I don’t really want to share the table with it, but I don’t want to hurt it either. I am in its space after all. Nothing happens. I slide the pen out. I think. It waits. I wait.

I slide the pen back over to its side of the table and gently touch one of its front legs. OK, that did it. It leaves, but it doesn’t just fly away like any other self-respecting bug. It takes a few slow steps toward the edge of the table and then lifts its wings and launches itself in the air, flying in its awkward, slow way over to the next little stand of almost-dead trees.

I guess we know who’s king of this jungle.

Away from Civilization--Sort Of

My nephew, Milo, basking in the sun after a cold, cold night camping

Our camping trip this weekend was fun, but we had to leave sooner than we planned. Every afternoon we had a major storm. And when I say major, I mean one day lightning struck our campsite and one day we had a half-inch of hail. And at 9,000 feet, it gets COLD at night after it rains. So Mother Nature did her part to let us know how inconsequential we are in the whole scheme of things.

But I could deal with all that. What was so funny is that we drove three hours to get away from it all and ended up in a campsite (not a campground--we won't stay in them) where we could hear ranch dogs barking, cattle lowing, and traffic on the dirt road about a half-mile from our camp. But we knew the rain was coming, so we had to pick a place. And the last day we were there, there were two gunshots VERY close to our campsite. Apparently it's hunting season, and apparently you can hunt in the U.S. National Forests. Needless to say, we left immediately. How could we feel comfortable hiking or even moving around in our camp knowing that we could be perceived as prey by our fellow humans? Yikes!

There were many beautiful moments on this trip, though:

• A study of grasses in bloom (see photos below)
• Moonlight shining on a tree at night, which made the new growth look like silver magic
• The haunting call of an owl at dusk
• Tiny little sounds of bats hunting
• Quiet contemplation of the scenery while savoring the delicious dichotomy of having half of my body in the shade, cool, and the other half in the sun, roasting