Walking though.
You wake up when you want to.
Birds are chirping, and unavoidable orange light and shadows are flitting across your eyelids.
So many smells- damp, tent, sweat, dirty socks, wet dew, fresh morning air, curious scents of plants, the smell of the pine trees- it all hits you at once.
Next– PAIN comes rushing in. Stiffness. Your feet scream a hello, Remember US?!” Crick in your neck. A root sticking into your back.
Sticky body… crammed in a sleeping bag. This is your wake up call. The discomfort makes you want out. So does the orange light. Like an enthralling song sung by the sun, the light draws you out of your cocoon. That breathtaking moment when you break the calm with the ripping sound of unzipping the tent and rain fly and SUDDENLY all the morning comes flooding in! The light, miraculous, lights up every inch of your exposed skin and sets it tingling, a good morning kiss. The breeze rushes in to embrace you and the freshness of pure nature morning air invades. The wild nectar of it is like flashflood that destroys all musty tent smells, lingering memories of unsettling dreams, and the tossing and turning of a night spent on roots and stones. You tumble out and stumble to your feet- the pain connecting to the earth. Joyful regardless, blissful even- you breathe deeeeep, a hallelujah chorus rises from your toes to your throat. And if it doesn’t make it out of your mouth it shines through your eyes like dazzling lamps that get lit in the morning rather than evening.
Another day commences, as do the daily rituals of laying everything with night dampness out to dry in sun, looking rather like your tent exploded. Then on to setting about making breakfast and coffee. Breakfast is an amalgamation of oats, water, a chopped-up apple for sweetness and that’s about it. It’s good because you’re hungry. If you’re lucky you find berries and throw them in and then it’s a celebration. Coffee though- dark, murky, strong, and hot sets the tone and you know it’s going to be a good day. Sharing the coffee back and forth while watching the sun rise higher over the horizon: serenity. The morning symphony of light, colours, smells, and bird songs are growing in strength. The crescendo of a full blown day is coming.
Follow the wet grass down to the stream. Trickling liquid crystal- like a flashing necklace across the ground. Dagger cold– but it doesn’t matter, you dash it over your skin. The sharp intake of breath chokes joy into your throat and the world suddenly looks brighter. This is what it feels to be alive- awake! GOOD MORNING! Skin to the air- you get dressed. Exposed and gleeful your body blushes to the sky and somehow you feel how animally correct it is. Why clothes? But reality and ‘civilized’ humanity snap back into place- you pull your clothes on. Tightly lace up your boots fully imprisoning your feet who wince in protest. But you know those boots are fully necessary to support the weight of your excruciatingly heavy pack. Feet settle into their yokes of slavery, accepting the pain not without a lot of grumbling.
A few minutes spent routing the GPS and figuring out which direction the path lies, you then begin the pack heaving ritual. This entails a full, methodical repacking of all your belongings- as Tetris-like as possible. Then all the straps are jerked and cinched into place. You lug the pack upright against a tree and then the heaving starts. Squat with legs wide apart in a ballet plié. Grab the shoulder straps and heave upwards with all your might while twisting so that the pack now rests your thigh. With the next twist and heave you slide it up, over, and down onto your shoulders. Re-cinching, buckling, pulling, and adjusting until the weight is distributed as balanced as possible and as many known bruises are avoided as possible. The weight crushes down- you feel your vertebrae compress like an accordion. Turtle style, your whole home is now on your back. Feels a lot more like you’re carrying a condo than a tent and a load of gear. Everything hurts. That old familiar pain, a dull orange aching flare– so familiar that you almost miss it when it’s not there.
The first few steps leave you feeling grounded and quite down to earth- literally, you have no escape. For the rest of the day you are a creature of the soil. Moving slowly and methodically. The pain and you settle into a rhythm and finally your mind can wander a few feet above your feet. You spend the day talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes you sing. Often you don’t talk at all. The forest is all around. The more you walk each day, the plants are becoming distinct; emerging as individual entities from the textured backdrop of green. You find yourself observing them more and more and noticing their unique, intricate detail. You begin to wonder what they are called, if they are edible, what their placement indicates about the soil health and type as well as their ecosystem. The plants become your companions. They are always en route with you. You start to delight in the familiar sight of the pointy leaves on this one, the perfect spiral on that one, the irregularly shaped leaves on another and so on. NOT TO MENTION their flowers, like so many living jewels just scattered all around.
The forest is enchanting. Almost every forest is. Something about tall, stoic trees with arching canopies of green and dappled sunshine pouring through- speaks of the majestic. The perfect clusters of moss covered boulders surrounded by ferns and sprays of flowers; so often paired with a ribbon of a stream flowing by, beg you to stop and stay a while. The path is forever changing. One minute it’s flat and broad and dusty. The next minute it is single-file wide and gnarled with wet roots. The forest is the oasis though. It is home, happiness, familiarity, shelter. Often the path wrenches you from the forest and forces you to walk across fields or alongside roads in the hot sun. While out in the open- there is usually a view, it rarely makes up for the abundance of shade, solitude, and that sense of safety that the forest gives. The sight of green approaching in the distance when you’re walking the road is pure relief and the moment the dimness of the forest swallows you again, you feel overwhelming gratefulness.
There are perks to the out-in-the-open and the high places. The view of course, the sense of smallness that puts you in perspective, and the vastness that is all yours for the time you walk it. And then there is also the fact that Switzerland for example has found a way to set up a café/restaurant/bar of sorts on nearly every high, open spot in the country. Germany and France aren’t too far behind. This comes in handy when you are parched and exhausted and would love an excuse to sit back and drink one of their tiny half pints of 6+ dollar beer (even if it barely tastes like anything and it’s really mainly the idea that sounds good). They are happy to oblige of course. And if you have the money, you could indulge in the food offerings of the café. Normally they will be selling fresh eggs and cheese from their farm, or their own sausage etc. Just don’t order water. It will be assumed that you mean a bottle of sparkling water because who orders water anyway?! If you happen to specify that you want ‘flat’ water you will receive a disdainful glare, followed by a 5 minute wait while your server will rummage around to find a glass bottle, proceed to fill it at a tap in plain view of you and then pour two glasses- all of which will be sitting on a tray. Finally they will bring you the tray and charge you for the bottle, the water in the bottle, the trouble to put it there, as well as the pouring of this water into your glasses (le service!). You will find out later on that all the ever-flowing fountains of water scattered around every single village that look like troughs for horses are actually flowing with fresh spring water that is 100% free and better tasting than any water you will ever find in the USA.
There are also downsides to wide open spaces. Some such as the dust and heat of the sun were already mentioned. Two are particularly frustrating. First- when you are saddled with a laughably immense pack and are creating your own path just wandering through forests and across towns and villages and then back out to fields and forests: you tend to feel rather watched. And you are- when you traverse civilization. You are stared at, mocked even, and at worst accused of being a gypsy and very looked down on. In places where hikers are the norm this is less of a problem and the feeling of freedom abounds. But in some places where backpacking is seen as the ugly cousin of hiking and wild camping is strictly a social taboo, if not illegal; you become an outlaw of sorts. You start to feel the suspicious eyes of the locals trained on you as you try to pass by fully loaded with gear in a nonchalant fashion, ambling towards the forest when it is clearly nearing sunset and time for every proper traveller to find a guesthouse for the night. This situation results in a near animalistic fight or flight survival mode to switch on in your brain. Your body becomes tense and you feel on edge and paranoid; like you need to hide and creep around like a forest creature. Because that’s what you are becoming. By now, you don’t fit out there in the villages anyway. The second particularly upsetting downside to open spaces is the complete exposure to the elements. You may think it wouldn’t happen that frequently to find yourself in the center or a meadow or bare hilltop caught in the grip of a violent thunderstorm, but think again- it will happen a dozen of times. As if the cold rain running down your face and pasting everything fabric to your body wasn’t bad enough, when you can see lightning crashing down around you and there is nowhere to go, not even a rock to slither up against, things get terrifying. The abundance of cows consistently present always make it more so. There’s nothing like being faced with a long meadow to cross right as a lightning storm is breaking all around you, meanwhile being suddenly made aware of the fact that the clusters of murky shapes dotting the landscape are large groups of frightened CATTLE…. The following moments promise to be cold, dark, scary, and daunting.
But you make it out. Or rather you make it IN to the forest once again. Safety in numbers- of the trees that is. You: cold, and with trembling fingers manage to string up a tarp as a rain shelter and wait out the storm. Your poncho drapes around your knees and over your pack as you sit on it under the makeshift shelter. You read aloud to the one who has nothing better to do than listen. The truth is, it’s delightful to be read aloud to under a tarp during a storm. In fact, it’s about as cozy as it gets given the circumstances.
This turns out to be a bedtime story as soon it dawns on you both that it is nearing that dreaded time of true darkness. What this means is the heightening of your animalistic instincts that drives the search for a place to “hide” for the night. The specifications for setting up camp are precise: sheltered, out of sight, FLAT!!!, not in a soggy low spot, not on a high windy spot… etc.. the list goes on. The search drives you and can become a smidge panicky as the light fades under the canopy. You may even find yourself in desperate straits- with a knife- cutting a flat rectangle into a soggy hill. It is always a race.. against time, against the dimming light, against the mosquitos and other various night crawlers… against the potential of being ‘discovered’ and seen as lurkers. One of you takes charge of unpacking both bags fully, setting up camp, arranging all the “furniture” and stowing the rest of the belongings under a separate tarp secured against the rain. While the other takes charge of the FOOD. If by chance a violin was brought along for the trip and if by chance you happen to be in a secluded enough spot; then the cook can play while the rice takes its sweet time to boil and the edge will be taken off the slight sensation of panic. Eventually, this process gets reduced to a science with perhaps the grace and speed enough to make it look like an art. That moment when the packs come OFF and drop to the ground is a moment of Hallelujah choruses reverberating through your body. You even feel like you’re flying, and the truth is, you’re not far off. Your spine seems to re-elongate itself with the loss of compressing weight and you feel as light as feather and buoyant.
Dinner is always delicious because you are starving. Critiques are
made of the flavours that vary only on the basis of the foraged creativity of
the chef. For example: juniper berries. They make an excellent addition to most
dishes whether crushed on top, or boiled in. And juniper wood adds quite a kick
when food is smoked over it. The more you know about plants, the more fun it
is- so you make good use of the pocket survival guide with the edible plant
chapter that you brought along for fun. All food takes careful calculation
because everything you carry adds that much weight to your pack. Nutrition
density + flavour + versitality + packability + weight + perishability
and so on; it all factors in. But right now, nothing matters more than
the smug, down to earth contentment of a starving creature feasting on a
mountain of food. Serious business. You don’t talk much. It is rather a race of
sorts seeing as how you’re both eating out the same heaped pan and your
companion eats so much faster than you. But then again, perhaps it’s only fair,
seeing as how you happen to be the smaller of the two. You never begrudge it.
You know you are the less hungry of the two and only wish you could offer more
food. It takes a mountain of food to fill the hollowing that a day’s worth of
walking has carved into you both. You’ve waited for this moment all day, dreamed
of it, fantasized about it, talked about it. You are ALWAYS hungry. A common
daily topic are the favourite dishes you both miss from select restaurants back
home. It never gets old. A common rainy-day activity is to pick three or four
ingredients and mentally invent as many unique combinations with them as you
can, then write the new recipes down and perhaps make a croquis of each. It’s
impossible to carry enough food to replace the calories you’re burning. In
fact, the heavier your pack is with food, the more you burn energy by carrying
it.
But you’re not thinking about that right now. Right now you’re happy. The really only downside is the fact that the mosquitos are so fierce that you habitually conclude that the only safe place to remain still for however long it takes to stuff your face happens to be the confines of the tent you can’t even sit up in. So, the second the food is ready- you turn off the gas stove finding yourself in near if not total darkness. Next you peel off the day’s worth of sweaty clothes exposing yourself even more to the brutality of the mosquitos and you try your VERY best to sponge off the sticky sweat of the day with a soaked end of a scarf. Once this rudimentary and rarely satisfactory form of bathing is completed, you throw your pajamas on as fast as possible and dive into the tent. You dare to light a headlamp and muffle it against your sweater which serves as your pillow.. The last thing your paranoid self wants is to be discovered by the light of your camp. The forest creature’s animal instincts in you have fully set in. You arrange your headlamp to where there is just enough light to make sure the food makes it to your mouth and doesn’t end up all over the sleeping bags. Once the pan is clean, one arm jabs out of the tent to deposit the pan face down on the grass. Time for sleep. One disappears into their cocoon of a sleeping bag- burrowing around to find the position with the least amount of jabs from roots and rocks; while the other may be quietly reading aloud or writing in a journal. But not for long. Exhaustion is real. Sleep is creeping up on you. The last thing you do is break off a couple squares of chocolate to split between the two of you- the reward of the day. It can’t get much better than this. You sink down into your sleeping bag trying to locate all the roots and sticks or stones and snake yourself around them so that you can sleep. Relief floods your body who says thank you to you for finally laying down, but sharp aching pain follows immediately to remind you of the abuse of the day. You find yourself automatically stretching your legs, pointing your toes, rolling your ankles and cracking anything that will crack in an effort to ease the pain. Soon, the best remedy of all- sleep, overtakes you and you no longer remember the pain, the stickiness, and the sweat that seem to be your constant companions.
However, true rest is a rare gem in this environment. Even your dreams keep you busy. You replay the day in as many choose-your-own-adventure possibilities as your brain has time to create. You imagine wild beasts. In fact, more than likely you will wake up a minimum of 5 times to sounds of night creatures around you. Of course you are terrified. The sound of thuds and snorts outside the paper-thin walls of your dwelling make your heart pound so loud that is often confused by you to be footsteps. You weary yourself with the paranoia and terror all the while keeping utter stillness and silence. It’s all in your head. Well…. sometimes. Sometimes though, it’s out there. And those times you pray hard. The nights when the wild boar is sniffing your tent, you pray just as profusely as you sweat in terror. The same goes for the nights when the lightning is slashing down all around you so consistently that you could read a book if you weren’t so terrified. Weariness leads you to pray for rest and sleep. If only your mind would just shut up and shut off. Those cows though. There is nothing worse than being woken with your heart jumping into your throat from the soul-jarring sound of an enormous COWBELL inches from your head. By now you’ve come to grips with the fact that the cows literally own every hillside and mountain in Europe. There is no escaping them. Dairy rules the continent. But when they manage to creep so close as to be about to numbly trample your tent in search of midnight-grass-snacks– it is time for action. Your adrenaline and anger catapult you past your fear- right out of the tent. Barefoot in the wet underbrush you disco-ball them with a waving headlamp all the while rushing right at them and jumping like a possessed human-sized frog. The result is the dull stupor of their sleepwalk-eating turns to sheer contagious terror and they stampede off in another direction clanging loud enough to wake the dead. They are gone. But only for a while. You, hopeful anyway, crawl wearily back into your tent. Needless to say you are developing a loathing for cows.
As the saying goes though, weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning. Just like back in the good old days when you were a kid dreading the darkness and waiting for the dawn: soon the sun cracks open the world of the marauding ‘things that go bump in the night.’ And brand new golden light, like a mother’s warm caress, floods the air sending the shadows into hiding for the day. On nights where you didn’t sleep a wink, this warm sensation of safety sends you into a deep sleep for… what amounts to only a few precious minutes. A terrible tease. Dawn signifies that necessity to get up and pack out. Somehow, from somewhere, miraculous and mysterious, you find energy for the day. Not all nights are so bad.. SOME are fine. A good night will have added up to about 5 hours of sleep, albeit broken. You can’t expect a full night’s sleep. Not when you live like an animal- always aware of your surroundings and hounded by the sensation of being prey in the night. But it’s all ok now! The golden morning brings with it the rushing excitement of the fact that before you lies a whole day of complete unknownness. You have no idea what lies ahead, what will happen, what the path will look like, where you are going to be. This is the adventure. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Words & Photos by Lydia
