After
an embarrassing number of miles hiked, I finally realized that committing my
quasi backpacking checklist to memory was like wearing speedos on the beach -
neither would work me. I had never worn the scant swimsuit, yet knew better.
But at the same time, I knew better than to head into Oregon’s wilds without
going over a checklist, yet it took me several frustrating miles to realize that
putting my list to paper would not only spare me from aggravation but actually
add enjoyment to my hikes.
On
far too many occasions, even on day hikes, I frantically scurried through my
pack, searching for my camera, suddenly realizing I had forgotten it at home while
an extraordinary trailside scene was playing out.
On
those hikes when I did remember my camera and that once in a lifetime photo
presented itself, I'd sometimes discover there was no film in it (pre memory
card days). Then - when all the elements came together, when my camera was at
hand, loaded with film, and a bald eagle hovering overhead, ready to soar down
out of the sky and stealthily strafe the lake surface, and I had strategically
positioned myself to capture that magical instant when the majestic bird
plucked an unwitting trout from the water, body wriggling amidst steely talons,
trying mightily to free itself - a cruel silence often prevailed over what
should have been the sound of the camera's shutter. I had used up the last of
the roll earlier that morning, snapping pictures of either a chipmunk posing
mundanely on a trailside log or moss growing on a tree. The trials and
tribulations Ansel Adams must have gone through!
Maybe
if photography was more of a priority for me the act of taking a picture would
have gone more smoothly. Instead, it was only a side interest along the trail
and, like all others, a distant second to the act of simply walking along a
mountain trail.
You
would think one junket into the mountains without toilet paper would hint that
a checklist including a roll might be not only worthwhile, but desirable. But
no! On more than one occasion I've crouched down in the brush, having to test
my ingenuity by frantically scanning the forest floor for something within an
arm's length that might suffice to “blow my nose.” ;-)
While
hiking into Four-In-One-Cone, one of Oregon's most impressive looks into the
Cascade Mountains’ most recent eruptive history, my stomach began to rumble. The
early morning performance of my only cup of java left little time to dwell on
my predicament. Being a procrastinator, I could easily and often turn this
process into an urgent situation. This time was no different.
On
a forested island amongst this vast lava land I frantically searched for a
place to squat without exposing myself to some innocent hiker trying to enjoy more
pleasant panoramas. I chose a private location behind a boulder.
Crouched
down, I reached over and searched through my daypack for some double quilted,
having squandered the opportunity to calmly pull it from my pack before going
into my crouch. I quickly realized that half the supplies I usually carry on a
day-hike were missing. This didn't surprise me. I had stumbled around camp in
the early morning hours hastily packing for the hike. Omitted from my pack on
this particular morning was, of course, toilet paper.
With
no time to stand up and search the area for some forest product that might be a
surrogate for my missing toilet paper, I spotted a small patch of old snow
covered with twigs and needles and cones. I hesitated for a moment, then
reached out, scraped down to the cleaner snow below and scooped out a handful.
I have been forced to “blow my nose” with much worse.
Ignorant
of what a poison oak leaf looks like finally convinced me to make hiking and
toilet paper synonymous. Today, if a psychiatrist gave me an association test
with a picture of a hiker, I might associate it with toilet paper.
Please
understand this: that hiking overflows with more pleasant things to write about
than “blowing one’s nose.” But it is also important to realize that “blowing
one’s nose” in the wilderness is more complex than doing it when connected to a
sewer system. Sanitation is also a bigger issue when in the sticks.
On
a hike to East Zigzag Mountain, located just west of Mt. Hood, I again found
myself without toilet paper. This time, severe lower abdominal pain accompanied
my predicament. Why I was in this position was pretty clear. While hiking the
previous weekend along the lower reaches of Mt. Hood's slopes, I had forgotten
water purification tablets and, against my better judgment, decided to gulp
down a few gallons of what was likely giardia-infested water. Yes, the reason I
was in this position, needing to “blow my nose” without toilet paper, was
likely because I had forgotten water tablets the weekend prior.
Before
my checklist revelation, which finally occurred after my gut wrenching episode up
East Zigzag Mountain, I simply relied on the assumption that all the gear I
needed was kept in my day-packing gear box, and as long as I pawed through the
box each time, I would find everything necessary for a day hike. Actually, on
the surface, this doesn't sound like a bad system, and for some people it would
probably work.
As
for myself, items used up along the trail were seldom replaced before the next
hike. Covering up 5 blisters with moleskin isn't fun, but developing blisters a
month later and suddenly remembering you used all your moleskin on the five
blisters a month earlier is pure hell.
