4 posts tagged “backpacking”
It was freezing this week in California (literally) and we figured that Tahoe and Yosemite were both too far and too cold (especially considering we'd both recently been ill) for a quick overnight trip. Big Sur and Ventana seemed like they might be a good idea, but again, distance and chilly weather were limiting options, and we've also been to those places so often that we wanted something different. Same thing with Point Reyes.
And then, all the sudden, we thought of Pinnacles. It's 130 miles from San Francisco, an easy drive, and has some of the most gorgeous landscape in California. Plus, California Condors. It turned out to be a great choice, and I uploaded a bunch of pictures to Flickr to prove it. Tuesday was particularly nice, as we more or less had the park to ourselves--unless you count friendly bobcats.
Bonus: note my groovy Vox and [this is good] T-shirts.
I especially loved Redwood. Big trees do for me what big mountains do for a lot of others. I'm mesmerized by them. Ancient and alive, thousands of years rooted in one spot. Enormous; you can only guess at the wholeness that's way too big.
But I was also wowed by the Roosevelt Elk, which are to Redwood what buffalo are to Yellowstone. Or cows to Marin county. They are everywhere, just off the roads. Four-legged photo ops.
On our camping and backpacking trips, Harper turns into sort of a living "No Moleste" sign. She actually has to say "no moleste" to me quite frequently. In this way the seashells, giant pinecones from the forest, redwood bark, snakeskins, volcanic pumice, petrified wood, lichens, and all manner of other interesting artifacts remain where they are in nature, rather than returning with me to San Francisco to perch atop my desk, where, in my view, they clearly belong. Or at least, probably would be more comfortable.
The cautions extend to animals as well, as otherwise I would be constantly grabbing up frogs, salamanders, gophers, and other slow-moving forest creatures, both large and small. My instinct when I see a giant Roosevelt Elk, for example, is to attempt to approach as close as I possibly can in order to take a picture of it.
"Hello! Don't mind me! Smile?"
Yet Harper discourages this practice, too. Touting silly things like "park rules" and "common sense when dealing with rutting Elk," she dissuades me from approaching to within inches to take pictures, or saddling, and riding the Elk around the park, hat in hand, yelling "yee-haw." Similarly, she has had to pry me unwillingly away from monkeys, snakes, birds, water buffalo, bobcats, and bison.
While I understand that, well, yes, I may be upsetting the natural order of things, and that if everyone took pumice home soon there would be no pumice left, on the other hand: Elk! Look at the Elk!
In any case, I kept my distance as best as I could (the last photo was taken from the car as we rolled slowly by some roadside Roosevelts) and recognized the wisdom (if not the fun) of keeping one's distance, taking only pictures, and living the no moleste lifestyle.
I am not "that guy," who only travels with a backpack. I do have wheeled luggage. A hanging bag. A carry on. Various day packs. I will not travel on principle alone.
But I love knowing that I can take off and go anywhere under my own power with my pack and sleeping bag and water filter and cook kit. It symbolizes freedom to me. Possibility. Strength.
And I love it because of all the places it's gone. Ireland, Denmark, London, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Mexico, Laos, Vietnam, Death Valley, California, Oregon, Washington, and other places I'm sure I'm not recalling now, have all fallen victim to my beloved backpack. It is an old familiar friend. One of the few "things" in my life that I am truly fond of. One of the few pieces of gear I own for which I have no upgrade lust.
One day, and hopefully one day soon, I plan to take it on the PCT. I hope to take it to Central and South America. New Zealand and New Guinea. I want to go everywhere, see everything. My backpack can make it happen.
Last night we listened to coyotes howl below us at two o clock in the morning; wretched, alone, and hungry, their voices carrying through the hills, wanting. We slept below an open sky, it was warm and we didn't put the fly on the tent. I could watch the stars spin above the earth; feel the breeze blow up the mountain from the ocean and onto my face.
Last night we heard the crickets scratch their legs together all around us until the air hung thick with sound. We built a roaring fire using just one two matches. We hiked a trail I'd never seen before, and looked below at the fog lying heavy and full atop the city that I love; invisible and indistinguishable from the ocean were it not for the top--the very tip--of that great living tower, peeping out like the head of a forgotten god, nothing left but bones now, drowning in a billowing white sea.
Last night at four o clock in the morning two men came buzzing into the parking lot in an ancient, wheezing mobile. They shouted at each other and then began to head up the hill, cutting through the woods towards our tent. As they neared the perimeter of our campsite, I switched on my light and confronted them, hitting them with several watts and deep, booming voice. They answered me and I didn't falter. Then they turned back, and I felt brave and scared all at once.
Last night a mouse raged inside our foodbox, and in the pitch as we got up to investigate, we laughed as it played peekaboo, head hidden away with body in plain sight. A tiny tail hanging limp from the cirner of the cabinet. We surrendered to it our chocolate, our cheese puffs, our tomatos. You cannot have our coffee.
This morning we watched the sun come up through the trees. We saw the glow of the lights of the city slowly give way to a brighter, more beautiful din. Birds came alive in the trees, and we woke and packed quickly and quietly, and drove home again to go to work today.
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