There are many reasons to not like backpacking.
One, and I’m just going to come out and say it: backpacking frequently requires either shitting in a hole or these days in heavily visited areas, a bag. At minimum I’m packing used toilet paper out. But if it’s a wag bag type itinerary, let’s just say eating the food from my pack doesn’t do much to displace the weight I ultimately have to carry.
(I can and probably should write an entire essay on the realities of excreting in the backcountry – remind me).
Two, it’s not comfortable. I don’t like being uncomfortable so I backpack like a princess, which means I’m carrying lots of creature comforts with me and loads of snacks. I bring my stargazing book, a sketch pad, a bag of peanut M&Ms, deodorant, a couple packs of emergency hand warmers, and cozy camp shoes. If that doesn’t sound princess-level, bear in mind that it’s all on my back. It’s all in the name, right? I get myself from point A to point B, carrying everything I need to survive – and then some. That bag gets heavy, and takes some effort to hoist up and across the miles of walking.
Sometimes, rudely, it rains. Other times, there’s not enough water because we’re in the desert, which means we have to carry extra. Water is life, and…heavy.
Other reasons to dislike backpacking: it takes boatloads of prep time, sometimes I get lost, there are evil plants that will sting or scratch me, I often feel cold, sleeping pads are uncomfortable no matter which one I have, I never really get enough sleep, there are bears in nature (generally, somewhere) which is very scary when there’s just a thin level of nylon between me and them, backpacking food is generally quite fibrous which can lead to bloating; when backpacking I’m often tired, thirsty, and hungry. There is no shower. There is no couch.
Yet, despite all of these truly unpleasant realities, I continue to backpack. What, you might wonder, the heck is wrong with me?!
Fair question.
My reason for backpacking is pretty unsurprising, and applicable even if you dislike or never try backpacking: it’s one of the only times in my otherwise pretty comfortable life where it’s easy to be fully present exactly where I am.
I write this flanked by two phones (art and personal), with my laptop in the middle as my fingers click clack across the keyboard. My mini-heater is on because it’s a tad chilly and rainy out. I can hear the drops drumming on the Airstream. I have a stack of books next to me. At any moment, a phone could glow with a text or an alert; or I could just notice it sitting there and wonder if anything on Instagram changed in the last seven minutes. Do I not like what we have in the fridge? I can go to the store. Heck, I can go to the (state operated, I’m in Utah) liquor store and get bottles aplenty; have a real-real fun Sunday night. (Actually no I can’t do that today because it’s the Lord’s Day in St. George, but I *could* conceivably drive the hour to Nevada…you get my point).
When I’m backpacking, I have exactly the “entertainment” I brought with me: maybe a book (maybe), definitely a map of the area. I have all of the food and maybe (maybe) a flask of whiskey I need for however many days I’m out there. I have it all: tent, sleeping pad, bag, inflatable pillow, first aid kit, toiletries, water filter, trowel, stove, fuel, etc.
When dinner’s done and cleaned; when I’ve eaten my allotted squares of dark chocolate and brushed my teeth, found my headlamp to hang around my neck, and fluffed up the down sleeping bag that’s waiting for me, there’s nothing left to do but…
Hang out.
This past week, we met friends from Reno in southeast Utah to backpack for four nights in Canyonlands National Park. There were many amazing moments in the trip, but I think my favorites were the ones where we really didn’t have anything to do.
We spent the better part of afternoons seeking out and inhabiting shade. Picture us five sitting out on cool, shaded slick rock, essentially hiding from the blazing (sixty degree, but it gets out out there!) sun, with nothing else to do but be.
We were silent for long stretches. We napped. We gabbed about whatever came to mind – the conversation ranged from geology to our favorite superbowl halftime performances; there was then a spirited conversation about reality tv. We couldn’t remember the lyric to that one song. We swapped notes on various family members and their quirks; we told stories about our mutual friends, we talked about our weddings and what they’d been like.
Nothing was forced; there was no “prompt” – it was just people together in this same situation, with literally no other entertainment than the vast thing there in front of us, and no phones to glance down at unless we wanted a picture.
Backpacking enables me to access this type of real presence. It’s similar to getting out of the country, finding somewhere remote to camp, doing an activity that requires my full focus, or even just putting my phone on airplane mode for an evening.
The price of admission for this kind of being wholly in the moment I’m in is worth it. Even when it requires me to poop in a bag.
Pics from our trip below! I’ve already started painting one…
