Packing Light

Trudge, trudge, trudge, lift each foot with its heavy boot, step over a moss covered stone, and place it down on the pine needled trail.  Thud.  Your feet are leaden and sweat is running into your eyes bringing with it a burning drop of bug repellent.  You need a rest.  Don't stop now, make it to the top of that rise, then you groan as you let the straps slip off, and your pack hits the trail with the clanking sound of your cook kit as it settles.

You bend over, breathing hard, many pounds lighter but without real relief.  You sit on a nearby stump and look at this collection of things you carry.  In a moment you will need to pick it up again, and you dread it.  What is in there?  All the things you need to survive.

You stare at the dirty scuffed thing, like a medieval invention of cruel intent, with its aluminium bars and tightly cinched straps.  You hate it in this moment, and everything in it.  It's HEAVY.  Everything in it is heavy.  Early on your journey you lightened it several times, you let go of things that were nice to have, when you realized what it meant to carry them.  It meant you would not survive, under the extra pounds and ounces you once thought you could not live without.  That stage has come and gone--every piece inside is essential.  There is nothing you can leave here by the side of the trail, no luxury or nicety you can let go of.  These things you must have.  They almost define you at this point.  They are a part of you.

It is not true that you are never given a burden you cannot bear.  A pack will be filled at the start of a trip with more than you could possibly carry, emptied, repacked, emptied again, re-evaluated, and hard choices made.  You decide what you will bear.  It is true that if you can carry it a mile, you will grow strong under it, until you can carry it all day.  But you must be able to lift it up yourself and tote it a mile before you can say you are ready to travel.

Your companions care for you, you know they would take something to lighten your load if you asked.  But they have their own packs, their own choices made, and you will not ask unless you are hurt or sick, these are your things, your survival, yours to carry.  If you weren't that kind of person you would not have come down the hard trail at all.

Exhale, stand and stretch.  Balance the pack on one knee and find the strap, then with a grunt and a swing you put it up on your back, scrabbling for the second strap until your hand finds the opening.  You hook the waist belt so that most of the weight rests low on your hips instead of your shoulders.  It's weight is familiar and tolerable again.  You check that nothing is left behind of your precious load, and hike on to make camp.

By the side of a lake you take out each item, each thing from your pack a treasure, a sustenance, a comfort.  Soft sleeping bag, warm meal, coffee-glorious coffee, a candle, a book, an ax, your fire making kit, your tent set up and laid out with your foam sleeping mat and dry clothes for sleep.  The burdens you carry that are now what enlightens you, feeds you, shelters you, keeps you safe.  You love these things that you carry, you could not rest without them.  You pick up the empty pack and carefully stow it out of the wet, securing all of its pockets and covers.

Tomorrow you will fill it again with all of the things you love, and shoulder it onward.  Your pack is all important, it is everything.  It is life in the wilderness.  It makes you strong and shelters you when you are weak and tired.  You carry it willingly, for the joy it holds.

Pack light.  Remember why you bear these burdens.  Choose them and cherish them, for they define you and your journey.  Why do you carry so much?  Because this path is precious and will never be seen again.  Because it is your fate to travel it, and you will traverse it.  This is the path with heart.

Where are you headed?

Passing through customs, your vehicle packed full of gear, under the watchful eye of men who's entire purpose is to be suspicious, you explain.

"I'm going hiking.  No, I'm not meeting anyone.  Pukasaw.  I've done it before."  They do not ask the question they want answered, which is "Are you crazy?," instead they make you pull over to the side so they can look through the vehicle.

Surprisingly, they give it only a cursory inspection, a once-over.  The purpose of the request to pull into the inspection area appears to be a closer inspection of YOU.  Is she for real?  A woman, with a dog for a companion, heading alone into the woods?

The remaining questions ensure that you do not intend to stay in the backwoods of Canada forever, the computer confirms you are not a fugitive, and you climb back in and drive out of the checkpoint with the ultra extravagant care of the pardoned criminal.

Apparently drug mules and gun runners have more believable stories than your truth.  You chose this hardship voluntarily.  You have left behind civilization, comfort, and its protection.  Civilization's entire purpose is to protect you from the raw untamed world.  Primeval, primordial, and -- lets face it --  deadly.  Why would you chose this over a dry, warm, well stocked life?

The Path of Destruction

You are secure, confident, you know these woods and their pitfalls.  Your canteen is always filled, your boots are broken in, your pack strap is fixed with a piece of wire.  Your flint is well worn--as smooth as your fire building technique.   Your companions know your talents and your quirks, and you make camp each night in a well-oiled routine.  Efficient, practiced, unthinking.

Some might find your world to be harsh, dirty, dangerous, and filled with annoying mosquitoes but you KNOW it, you grok it, you are in your element and you know you can survive within it.

You know if it sounds like a bear its probably a squirrel.  You have learned you won't hear the bear, you'll see it first, and have to decide if you stand it off or retreat slowly.  Bears are campfire conversation now, an ever-present danger which has--by familiarity--become little more than a nuisance.  Your fears have been numbed.

You have reached a zen-like oneness with the reality of your environment.

The next bend in the path brings you to the edge of woods, too much light through the trees, and your boot comes down in a soft silent puff of ash.  Before you the forest is gone, burned, a smoking wrecked landscape.  A forest fire, unfought.  A controlled burn, they call it.  When there aren't enough resources or interest, when there isn't enough care, the fire is allowed to take all in its path.  There is not a tree left standing, not a living thing, the river is choked with burned wood and the water is bitter, it tastes of ashes and death.

There is one half burned log bridge, your party starts across, but it will not hold you all, like the ruined landscape, it cannot support your tribe.  It breaks midway with a gut wrenching sudden crash, you pull a few on your side to safety, and those left behind catch the coats of their own and pull them in.  You stare at each other across the gulf.

You wonder which troop will find shelter first.  They turn back, back toward the forest, to find another path, but you and your happenstance survivors must go on.  There is no way back for you.  Into the lifeless smoldering future you step.  Relying on faith that there is something on the other side, that you can reach water and shelter again before your canteens run dry.

You huddle beside a fallen black stump and make a cheerless camp, sharing what you have with the survivors.  You fill the holes in the practiced routine clumsily, you miss them--their laughs and their stories and their skills, but mostly you miss the innocence of the time when you were together and all you feared were mosquitoes and bears.  This total devastation was not on the map, it was not in the travel guide, and there was no preparing for it.

You tell tales of your lost ones, and they of you, at their fires.  Sleep is fitful.  You will not forget, and you will never be the same, but you must believe in their abilities to survive as you shoulder your burden again.  You know them, you grok them, and you know they will not fail.  Not bears or bugs or bullies can stop them.  This is what you have faith in as you trudge on--the journey has made us all strong enough to survive.

How to Make Fire

Without fire there's no comfort, little safety, and so, no joy in camp.  You gather birchbark, tiny spruce twigs because they are dry under their canopy, neat piles of dry twigs roughly sorted by size, and envision the flame.  Wishing won't make it so, though.  Fire must be created.

Fire can be made with friction and pressure.  By sheer force of will and untiring work.  This is rubbing two sticks together, your hands working down a carefully chosen spinning stick, palms almost as hot as the tip of the twig as it grinds into the groove of another perfectly dry branch.  This is a solitary endeavor, your focus intent on the friction point.  You dare not pause even for a moment, or let up on the downward pressure as you spin.  Sweat drips into your eyes and doubles your vision.  No one can help you do this, and any wavering of intention will lose the small steady gains.  Your palms might blister, your shoulders ache, the sweat (or is it tears?) drip from the tip of your nose.  A waft of smoke, thin as spiderweb, begins to drift up from the contact point.  You have forced fire into the world.  This is the most difficult way, serving when your journey is solitary...without a guide, by choice or by chance.  Your joy in this fire is knowing you are self-sufficient, determined, and powerful.

Fire can be made with a spark.  By a tiny miracle of ingenuity.  This is striking flint to steel, or focusing the sun through a lens or in a reflective curve polished to mirror finish.  Literally brilliant, like an inspiration, the spark must be cradled in a perfect bed of ultrafine tinder.  You prepare tiny shreds of single layers of birchbark, dry grass as thin as hair, bits of found paper or dried leaf.  Only in perfectly laid plans will the spark live long enough for the flame to take hold.  You strike the flint again and again, sparks flying and bouncing off the shielding wall of dry rock blocking the wind.  Again, again, again.  Until the moment you drop the flint and steel, quickly leaning in to blow the caught spark into life.  Your heart pounds, your breathing quickens, all hinges on this moment.  The tinder catches, a tiny flame is born.  You have inspired fire into the world.  This way serves when your journey is well prepared and your mind is sharp.  Your joy in this fire is in triumphing by your talents, inspiring yourself and your companions.

Fire can be made with an ember.  By accepting the gift of fire from one who has it.  This is a coal from their fire, cradled in dry moss inside a hollow branch.  You must carry it, a precious jewel of potential, and keep it alive with your breath until you reach your own hearth.  You must be willing to accept it, and make it your own.  The same banquet of fuel must be prepared for your ember, a place for it to breath and eat and grow strong.  You lay the coal on the shreds of birchbark or red crackly dry pine needles and blow your spirit into it.  You feed it with tiny spruce twigs and more birchbark, careful not to smother it.  Too much food will kill it faster than too little.  A perfect balance of wood and air is needed.  Your fire grows into an upright blaze, new embers popping from the pine sap and landing up against the edges of the firepit.  You could gift these embers now, as you sit back and admire the dancing tongues.  You have shared fire with the world.  This way is the sweetest way, when your journey happens upon the right companions.  Those who share and inspire and encourage, who are willing to give of themselves.  Your joy in this fire is in honoring the gifts you are offered, nurturing them until you can share the light and warmth with any and all, whether they sit at your hearth or carry your gift away to their own.

Lace up your boots

Gravel crunches under your feet.  You step over a fallen log, safer than stepping on top.  The lace of your boot drags through the moss, catching on a twig, tugging your attention like a child.

You stop, bending unsteadily to answer the call, wavering under the weight of your pack.  What effect will this pause have?  Do you think you will now be late for your destiny?  Because of this interruption will you cross paths with a fellow traveler, an incredible sunset view, or an irritated sow bear?

There is no way to know, there is no way to tell, as my daughter used to say.  Your experience will be determined by your path, the time you traverse it, and your attention.  Fate or chance or your higher power may untie your shoelace at just this pivotal moment to ensure you meet a challenge or avoid one, and you cannot know which.

Tie your bootlace with your full attention.  Be in the moment and tie it impeccably.  This is the only way to embrace the path, to traverse its length and notice its secrets.  Be present.  Be aware.  Be HERE.

You tie the bow in a double knot to keep it from coming undone, and straighten carefully, surrendering your shoulders to the pack again, and take a drink.  Inhale deep and the wetness in your mouth enhances the scent of pines.  You notice the sparkle of water through the trees, the first thing you will need to make a base-camp.  You head in a new direction.

Make your way in the moment.  Give your journey your full attention.  Walk in beauty.

The Jumping Off Point

You follow a map, you check in or register or sign in or else you just show up, with all your preparations on your back.  All that weight of your cares and your expectations, you bring a first aid kit and a book to read, because fear of disaster and fear of boredom loom equally in your mind.

There is always a journey to the starting point, a prelude to change.  A moment you did not recognize when you turned this direction, but now it has led you here.  The Jumping Off Point.

This is the term wilderness travelers use when they reach the last edge of the known and step into the mystery.  The jumping off point is where you leave behind all but what you carry with and inside yourself.  I stand at the trailhead.  I adjust my pack straps.  I step out with faith in myself and my companions.

Let the Journey Begin!