Many years ago, my brother and I went on a backpacking trip in Washington State. My brother had done many such trips, but this would be my first. I was living in Tennessee at the time and had joined a hiking club that made frequent excursions into the Smoky Mountains. I ‘practiced’ for my backpacking trip by carrying a school backpack filled with water and snacks. I believed I was ready for the more arduous hiking in the North Cascades. But I could not begin to be ready for the 30-pound pack and the relentless switchbacks climbing a thousand feet or more up the backcountry peaks.
There was always something about camping and backpacking that appealed to me. I relished the thought of ‘roughing it’ for a time—forsaking the comforts of my normal life for the extreme deprivation of having to take only what was necessary into the wilderness. Perhaps I saw this kind of activity as a way to expand my own resilience by taking on the additional physical challenge of climbing a spectacular peak with a huge backpack on my back. In reality, the challenge of just getting my tent set up was enough to throw me into fits of whining and complaining. The thin mat I would sleep on barely hid the sharp rocks beneath me, and the constant insect threats revealed that my resilience was almost non-existent. I imagined the comforts of civilization—instant access to a shower, fresh water, and food—as we used a water filter to replenish our water supply from a local stream, ate just what was necessary to sustain us for a few days, and continued our trek without a change of clothes or a shower. If camping and backpacking taught me nothing else, it certainly taught me how much I take for granted in my life, and how easily I wanted to give up at the slightest inconvenience.
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