One of my coping skills for general anxiety is list making; I make lists for everything and I just created a new one: Lisa’s Essential Backpacking Checklist. Backpacking Buddy and I are using it to get ready for our next trek.
I say Camp Stove. Buddy says, Check.
I say Fuel Canister. Buddy says, Check.
Next, I emphasize Extra Fuel Canister and try to make eye contact with Buddy, to be doubly sure about this one. The check list was generated precisely because the extra fuel canister didn’t make its way on the last trip.
Without reciprocal eye contact, Buddy, quietly says, Checckkk. I believe I perceive a slight tone of contrition, though I would take greater satisfaction hearing more contrition. One way or the other, I get the impression that the extra fuel canister will arrive with us to camp.
We proceed: Tent. Check. Tent Poles. Check. Tent Stakes. Check. Rainfly. Check. All boxes. Check!
That evening, we arrive at our destination, wet, cold, and hungry. It began raining about the time we showed up at the trailhead and it rained most of the 5-mile hike in. I feel smug though – we’ve got this covered, we’re prepared – everything on Lisa’s Essential Backpacking Checklist was checked off!
Under the rain shadow of a blue spruce, I pull the rainfly out of my pack while Buddy pulls the tent and ground cloth out of his. As I am spreading out the ground cloth, I’m salivating over thoughts of a dry, warm reprieve from the elements, within the confines of our glorious tent, when I hear:
Where are the tent poles and stakes?
Me: What do you mean?
Buddy: The poles and stakes are not in my pack.
Me: What do you mean?
Buddy: I guess I left them at home.
Me: BUT YOU SAID “CHECK,” WHEN I ASKED YOU ABOUT THE TENT POLES AND STAKES, SO WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY’RE AT HOME? …
Temporarily clearing skies and a tarp arranged into a lean-to for our sleeping bags save us. And somehow, Buddy manages to start a fire out of wet wood. And thanks to the stove and fuel canister that didn’t go missing, we consume our now cooked freeze-dried REI Stroganoff meal. Drying out by the fire, I bring up the whereabouts of the missing tent poles and stakes. I tell myself that I will stay detached from the roiling emotions that are surging up in my chest as I discuss. Backpacking Buddy states that he should have been more attentive while responding with his “Checks.” I abstain from the sharp, Ya think? that’s on the tip of my tongue. But as I look at the rain clouds developing again, I feel whatever composure I pretended to have, vaporizing…
Next morning: As the rain is sheeting off the tarp lean-to, we quickly stuff our backpacks. The worn path is sloppy wet, pooling in low spots. We trapse down through the rock-strewn trail and numerous stream crossings, me out in front, Buddy a way back. Finally, we draw near to the trailhead and the first hikers we’ve seen all weekend come into view. As they approach, they seem focused on me and begin talking to me from afar. I have no idea what these strangers might want. I feel somewhat hesitant and a tad uneasy as they advance. Once within earshot, I hear something about tent stakes. At first, I’m a bit confused and then I begin to understand, as I see them carrying a familiar-looking tent pole and stake bag. They wonder if it is ours and say they found it laying on the ground near our car at the trailhead.
On the way home, I play through the events and have this takeaway, of course in the form of a list:
Notes to Self
- Sometimes mistakes happen. Our buddies have our backs. And backpacking is all about improvisation. Isn’t that part of the lure?
- Desiring someone else’s contrition is code language for: Take a look at yourself.
- Treat each stranger you come across as if entertaining an angel, unaware.
