Why did the coffee smell so much better? I don't know if it was the crisp, earthy air, or the knowledge that I would soon hear my grandfather patting biscuits into the Dutch oven and dredging the trout in flour before frying. If I hurried I could be the first perched on the rock nearest the fire, enjoying its heat as I savored the delicate flavor of the fish with the airy lightness of his biscuits. My father, the fisherman, had left camp before dawn, treasuring this time on the river most of all. With his morning contribution to breakfast he would sit and sip his coffee until my mother emerged from their tent so they could enjoy the meal together.
I've grown up within this culture; camping, hiking, exploring the wild country. Always careful to leave no trace of our being there - except on film. The pictures never as vibrant, but a useful link to the memory of that breath-taking view from the top of the ridge, or the numbing splash into the glacial lake.
Hauling a 21 foot trailer behind his old Chevrolet pick-up truck was my grandfather's preferred mode of camping. He was never in the trailer, living and cooking outside, but its double-bed was his great joy. My parents camped with a tent while my brother and I slept outdoors on folding, canvas cots. Giving up the cot in exchange for the quiet and solitude found at a primitive campsite was an easy sacrifice, and my high school weekends and summers found me in high altitude at the end of a long, steep trail. Close friendships were formed, a self-reliant group seeking a different sort of entertainment from most of our peers. Sunsets would be celebrated on an overlook saying good night to the world. Dark brought on campfires and singing into the night.
The wilderness has been my extended-ed, my summer school. It has taught me the importance of timing. Set up camp first as thunder showers come on so quickly, hang your supplies high and away unless you want a bear and hunger for dinner, when the sun sets, it's dark. You may be only five miles from the drug store but that's an afternoon's excursion, down the mountain, up the mountain, on foot.
The hike out and back to the drug store raised my usual preparedness to a new level. Whatever the circumstance, I would pack to be ready for it. But who wants to carry it? What to leave behind? Time to prioritize - another wilderness lesson. At first I had to write up a list with approximate weights, drawing a line through that pair of sweat pants that was oh, so comfortable and warm, knowing my jeans would do. My scout leader was horrified to discover that a friend and I had carried this to a new level by sharing as much as possible, including the toothbrush, which was much easier to share than the spoon.
Why go to all this effort? Who wants to sleep on the ground and go without a hot shower, to say nothing of the other bathroom luxuries? Or eat what looks like dried sticks and berries, even after being soaked, and cooked over a stove the size of my coffee mug?
We hikers are so thankful that others ask themselves these questions when they drive by us, tired and filthy at the trail head. Their disdain for discomfort is the only way this rugged land will remain the unpopulated wilderness we enjoy. From their speeding cars they cannot see the craggy granite ridge lines, the chilling waterfalls from the melting snow, or the meadows of wildflowers in riotous color. They think only of their creature comforts, not realizing that it's leaving those comforts behind that rejuvenates and expands the soul.
Of course, I married a backpacker. While I had grown up car-camping, discovering backpacking as a teenager, he was introduced to backpacking through his youth-group. Side-to-side campsites filled with tents, ice-chests, and screaming children were not "real camping". Relating stories of my camping childhood, ending with the declaration that I would not carry my pack, the baby, and the diapers (in and out of camp) he reconsidered. We have a beautiful photograph of me eight months pregnant sitting in a meadow of tall grass with our oldest daughter standing in my embrace. A later photo catches him on a riverbank teaching three little girls how to skip stones. The timer on my camera captured the five of us bundled in jackets, caps, and gloves gathered on a small ledge overlooking the shadowed Tuolomne River with the glowing orange sun sinking behind the surrounding mountains.
The garage shelves hold five backpacks now, as we shop for the sixth. In June we introduced our new son-in-law to backpacking up the Tuolomne River in Yosemite, revisiting our sunset ledge. The first week of August will find us up Redwood Creek swimming in the cool, green pools created by the incredibly sculpted boulders, sitting absolutely still while watching the golden eagle preen himself on a snag across the creek. We will gather to admire the sunset and bid the day good-night knowing that our daughters will be doing the same, wherever they are.
In the back country you only have what you carry. Setting up camp takes but a few minutes. After that it's just you and the beauty, and the peace that surround you. They invite you to sit and look, admire, see...think, dream. Bells don't ring, horns don't honk, neighbors don't yell across the street. You have the time and inspiration to become comfortable with yourself, and regain your perspective. And finally to become aware, once again, of how truly
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