Illustration by Alex Siklos
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
My wife Cheryl and I just got back into backpacking after a hiatus of some 15 years. We had no idea we were embarking on what is called “Type 2 Fun.” Type 2 fun is defined as an activity that is not enjoyable in the moment but becomes fun when looking back on it. It often involves challenging or even unpleasant experiences that ultimately lead to a rewarding feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. Think of it as “suffer now, enjoy later.”
Our backpacking gear, assembled over the years, was at one time state of the art. Now our gear has the equivalent weight of a cast-iron frying pan – one chiselled out of an anvil.
These days, it seems like high-tech gear is made of the equivalent of spider’s webs, lighter-than-air synthetics and dehydrated five-course meals that not only satisfy, but also turn to (unpleasant) air, if you know what I mean. The stuff is so light I feel like I might need to ballast my pack with a rock to keep it from floating away.
Well, our old, heavy gear did not float away. Instead, our packs grounded us, made us one with the Earth. I discovered a physics anomaly. My pack was 40 pounds (18 kilograms in metric-speak). The difference between 35 pounds and 40 might seem insignificant. However, through some strange aberration, maybe cumulative impacts, that five pounds was considerably heavier than one might think and a scale would register.
This might have something to do with our age, as we’re in our mid-70s. Maybe the weight of stuff is lighter when you’re younger – perhaps there is some sort of cosmic compensation for a reduced age. That seems patently unfair and should be reversed so stuff becomes progressively lighter as one ages. Someone should be working on that, but I’ll bet all the researchers are young and wouldn’t notice.
As we were packing for our backcountry trip, it all came flooding back. An overnight hike and a five-day hike require largely the same gear (and weight). There seems to be an immutable rule, like gravity, that you cannot sidestep. You can leave something out and invariably that item will be the thing most required on your trip. Like a tuque and long johns when a string of hot weather inextricably shifts to rain, sleet, sometimes snow and cooler temperatures where perishable food storage is no longer a concern.
Sometimes it’s the heavy item, like a stove and fuel. You tell yourself that cooking over an open fire is a heritage experience. And it is, when the smoke from wet wood wafts around you as you try to coax a reluctant flame to boil water in a blackened pot.
So we took everything we needed for all contingencies, except perhaps nuclear war. We were well-prepared, well-dressed, well-provisioned, well-sheltered and smug, once we got to our destination.
But it’s the getting there that is the chore. We discovered it isn’t backpacking, it’s back-cracking. Once that pack is hoisted it feels like a millstone tied on that demands a herculean effort. Any thoughts of sightseeing and enjoying the view were rapidly drummed out of me as I walked, somewhat hunched over from the burden, gaze firmly on the ground before us.
Lifting my eyes to see a hill to be climbed would definitely erode morale. Best not to think more than a few yards ahead. Any attempt to straighten up to admire the view may unbalance things with a risk of toppling backward. If I did that, I’d struggle like a beetle flipped over, arms and legs wildly flailing.
Our hike was seven kilometres. I know what you’re thinking. That’s incredible! It’s multiples of the length of a shopping mall, even with sales on in many stores. It’s more than 7,000 steps, not counting wobbles. Did I mention the unpaved ground that compels you to lift your feet over rocks, ledges and tree roots?
At a certain point in the hike I pondered the inescapable that the human body is poorly designed for upright locomotion, especially carrying a heavy load.
One foot after the other, on an irregular conveyor belt of a trail, summoning up the grist of endurance and afraid to take the pack off, lest I couldn’t get it back on without assistance. We were sweating, thirsty and wondering what kind of momentary madness had prevailed for us to consider this might be fun again.
And then a turquoise blue lake appeared beneath a stunning mountain vista of emerald-green forest, sheer cliffs, cascading waterfalls and imposing glaciers. Magically, without the aid of a narcotic drug, the pack lightened, our pace increased and anticipation heightened. Our campsite on the shore of Kinney Lake in Mt. Robson Provincial Park gave us an unfolding scene of beauty that took some time to absorb.
After some quiet reflection and appreciation for the virtues of wild country, one of us said, “Well, that wasn’t so bad!”
I suppose that means we will be engaging in more Type 2 fun in the near future.
Lorne Fitch lives in Lethbridge, Alta.
