As modern Americans, we were used to a rather lackadaisical routine of
sitting at desks and adjusting the thermostat and pooing in the lavatory
and then boom! We were hiking seven miles through steep terrain. Our
boots were soaked and covered in mud and our hips ached from the
sixty-pound packs sitting all of their weight upon us for hours. And of
course, once we got to camp, we only had to put up our tents, the bear
bag, the cooking tarp, and make dinner… on an itty-bitty backpacking
stove. It makes me laugh now only because these things didn’t really
bother us while we were on the trail, but I usually put them into stories
for dramatic effect. All I can really assure you is that I was captivated by
the end of the first day. Each evening at camp, we had several readings
and a discussion to ease our minds into living in the wild, many of which
I found to be significant in my soul-searching. I believe in order to find
one’s soul, one must si mply take the time to search. We started with
“Stump-Sitting” by Kathleen Dean Moore.
I looked around for an appropriate place to set my rump, as that
was our task for the night… to find a stump to read on. So I meandered
this way and that and, upon realizing that there were very few dry spots
in the marsh aside from large flat stones, I decided upon one of the less
mossy variety. There I read a piece that asked me to “poke about” and
listen to the wilderness. Am I really in the wilderness? All I could see
was this untamed marshland with a meandering stream flowing nearby.
There were little gatherings of pines and wherever the rocks left a gap,
low scraggy brush had moved in. I closed my eyes to hear the essence of it
all. A slight breeze waxing and waning followed by a bird calling without
answer. A minute or two passed and I was completely submersed in the
wild air and the coolness of the rock. But I heard something that broke
my heart. The rumbling of a passenger jet high in the atmosphere rung
in my ears like a fire alarm, like a church bell within arm’s reach, like a
screaming child at a funeral. It didn’t belong and it drowned my serenity
in its taint. It never had occurred to me that noise was filthy. I was
disgusted with such a simple sound in such a remote place. But it meant
something more encompassing to me. It spurred a deeper anguish. I had
been listening so fully that I had to open my eyes to stop. The squatting
sun cast long, blue shadows over the low marsh and as the temperature
started to drop, I made my way back to the cooking tent.
Upon arrival back at camp, I noticed one of my fellow hikers,
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