River of Knowledge

 River of Knowledge

Wet, cold, tired, and hungry. These feeling I could name. They were solvable and temporary. The emotions swirling inside were less tamable. Embarrassed was just the base line. I was in way over my head, and being surrounded by other people only added to my misery. I’m not sure anything would have been different; it might have been a lot worst had I been alone. But I was used to being alone. It was how I preferred these times. Alas, the population for this adventure far exceeded solo, and I found myself struggling with a near emergency and wresting the inner turmoil that arose from it.

I knew setting out on this particular trial that it was well traveled and I would not experience the solitude I normally had on my frequent backpacking trips. I also knew it was a long hike in, and known for steep inclines and declines. Roller-coasters as it were.  That was the main reason I picked it. 10 miles in, following along the Big Sur River, I came to see if I was physically capable of managing not only the distance, but the elevation gain/loss.

I consider myself an experienced backpacking and avid hiker. Very familiar with my gear, set up, break down, pack weight and supplies. The farthest distance I had done up until this point was 8 miles in. Most of the time I do 3-4 miles in to a designated trail camp with individual sites. This was different. It is a first come first serve dispersed “camp ground”. I put camp ground in air quotes, because it really is just a flat place along the river where you find anywhere you can to lay down amongst the others all vying for the same thing.

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The trees speak in very soft voices. Almost imperceivable. To hear them, a person must not only quiet their outward self, they must quiet the soul within.  What the trees say to the soul is profoundly relevant and meaningful, giving wisdom and guidance to whatever life situation you find yourself in. The trees stand tall, firm, and are incredibly generous with their knowledge and ability to lend strength. Help is like the oxygen they release. It doesn’t take them much effort at all, it’s just something they do, naturally. This is the reason I go out on my adventures. To find and achieve solitude, quiet, stillness, and the peace that comes when my soul communicates with the tree’s soul. Upon my return, each and every time, I come back refreshed, restored, centered, and ready to embrace and engage with life once again.

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This was not the case during or after this particular adventure. It started out as all the others do. I arrived fairly early, paid and parked, and began loading my pack onto my back, checking the straps, zippers, ties, balance and making sure my shoes and socks were secured to my feet properly. I had everything I needed for an overnight, so I stopped for a brief 5 min meditation calling in fun and safety, and then began by putting one foot in front of the other and continued doing that for many miles and many hours.

My pack was heavy, my legs were tired, the view was spectacular. I could see out over the ridge line, across the valley and all the way to the Pacific Ocean sparkling blue in the morning sunlight. Other hikers, some with overnight packs on, some just day packs, and a few runners passed me, I held slow and steady as is my trademark speed. The only speed I have.

Stopping for a brief trail snack, I was passed by a few more people and this was the point in which I felt the start of worry setting in. The ups and downs of the terrain, the fact that I wasn’t even half way yet, and knowing my destination was first come first serve, and with the amount of people who were all heading to the same spot as me, a lot faster, brought up a growing concern that by the time I got there, there would be no more space to set up a tent. This was also a new trail and destination so I had only YouTube videos and paper maps to guide me as in what to expect. I took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the reason I was here. Commune with nature and hear the trees.

One in foot in front of the other, I put a few more miles behind me and pressed on. The day pressed on as well. The sun reached a high point and the heat of the day brought out sweat and an even slower pace. This increased my anxiety and lowered my ability to calm my soul and hear the message nature had in store for me. Still, I moved forward.

Camp was now only a few more miles, and the sun was heading low with a quickness towards the horizon. My legs felt like two concrete pillars, my shoulders ached, I was hungry and smelled faintly like mountain goat.

There was the “camp site”! I made it! Almost. The river, swollen from the recent heavy rains, was between me and resting in my tent. People lined the shoreline on the other side, safe and sound. No bridge. Just a deep swift moving wide body of water. My mind was as fatigued as my body. I had never forded a river such as this and had no clue what was in store. Mustering up all my bravery, I stepped in. Slowly, as the cold water pushed my legs, tested my resolve and drenched everything from waste down, I plotted through and touched dry land on the opposite shore.

Dropping my pack, thankful to be unburdened, I dumped my gear out, set up camp within arm’s reach of other camps, crawled inside my sleeping bag and closed my eyes. I knew my body was hungry, and I had brought a meal, but that required boiling water, and I just didn’t have the mental energy for that. All I managed to do was open a pack of tuna and eat it. As the sun left the sky, darkness set in, a few lone stars appeared and I dozed off. Very aware of how close the other backpackers were, and that I was far away from stillness, exhaustion and a mild dread of what the morning would bring set in as a restless sleep carried me until dawn.

First light, noise of many others breaking down and packing up, roused me. Groggily I emerged and started heating water for my coffee. I felt many eyes, and try as I might to ignore and just carry on with my business, the close proximity of the others was making me very claustrophobic. I drank my coffee, ate a handful of beef jerky and mixed nuts, loaded up and felt weak beneath the weight of it all.  

First steps of the 10-mile journey began with the treacherous river crossing. No choice. I had to get back. Short legs, heavy pack, swift water, cold slippery stones, faces of others and their well-meaning unsolicited advice; I was almost to the dry bank, a few more steps… down I went!

Pack and all, drench and being swept downstream. Only thought was to point my feet down stream and keep my head up. A large rock braced and saved me from being dragged very far. I clung to it like a frog for dear life as two very kind women started calling out, “it’s going to be ok! We got you!!” With their help I scrambled and clawed my way to dry land. Taking a breath and inventory, realizing how many faces were looking concerningly at me, I felt slightly in shock and didn’t know exactly what to do next. The two women, sweet as can be, hovered over me peppering me with advice and concern. I just sat there. The reality of what I had to do next slowly washed over me.

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I’m soaking, and so is all my stuff, which has added a considerably amount of weight to an already heavy pack. There’s 10 miles of rough incline/decline terrain ahead of me, and I have no privacy to sort out these swirling emotions of failure, panic, and regret.

I wait. I wait some more. I dry out a little. The crowd thins out as they finally decide I’m not going to die and they can get on with their day. This is what strength and determination look like. I strap on my pack, secure my belts and zippers, check my soggy shoes and socks, then one foot in front of the other. Continue for many miles and many hours. I pause for a snack break here and there, feel my resolve faltering, gather myself, call my energy back to focus on the task at hand, as one foot in front of the other maintains a slow and steady pace.

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As I collapsed at the car and burst into tears, I knew I had not heard a single word the trees had to say. I felt little to no stillness and between the crowd and falling in the river most of the fun had been taken out of my adventure. The fun had been replaced with something different. A deep sense of fortitude. A physical capability that can only shine when there is no other choice. It must. A reliability upon myself, and an understanding of my limits and how I handle and adapt when those limits are exceeded.

I did not achieve the quietness of soul that is needed to hear the trees. I did achieve the adversity to be able to hear the depths of myself.