Camping

by Jennifer Wise 

Everything woke up with a sense of urgency, except John. The sun, which rose bright and hot at precisely five a.m. on a late June morning, passed right through the thin walls of the ultra-light backpacking tent then through his eyelids. Before opening his eyes, he replayed the twists and turns, boulders and scrambles filling the eighty miles they’d done so far that week on the Appalachian Trail.

If he did open his eyes, he’d have to face the eighty left ahead. John rolled onto his side and flexed his calves as he bent his knees. His legs went into spasm immediately and he bit his cheek to keep from swearing.

The musty dampness of the earth under him seeped into his consciousness. He had slipped off his narrow sleeping mat in the night, tossing and turning despite being constrained like a mummy in a twisted-up sleeping bag. He felt like he must have heard every single hoot of the Barred Owl’s eerie who-cooks for-you call that reverberated in the tree above them.

Sara had reassured him the humidity-soaked White Mountains would be cooler with the elevation. That had not gone as predicted. Yet he loved her for her optimism that grew stronger the more discomfort she saw he was in.

An errant mosquito found its way into the tent and came looking for a bare spot of skin. Sara unzipped her sleeping bag. He saw every vertebra of her back, visible through the thin tank top she slept in. She slipped on socks and crossed her legs. She shook some instant coffee from a plastic bag into an aluminum cup and poured in a few ounces of tent-temperature water. She swirled it and swigged it. He had not expected her to tolerate that version of coffee when she had a high-end espresso maker at home.

John feigned sleep, breathed deeply, ached for a cup of coffee from her fancy machine. Sara unzipped the tent the rest of the way after pulling on her t-shirt and shorts. 

Who knew zippers could be so loud? 

He rolled over so he could peer out the half-open tent flap. She unscrewed the bear proof cannister containing their provisions. She squatted with ease on muscular legs in front of the microscopic backpacking stove to heat water for oatmeal. The flimsy-looking stove seemed ready to fall over at any moment yet never did.

Her blue bandana held back lustrous hair despite using only phosphate-free camp soap once during their trip. She looped stray locks behind her left ear as she stirred oats into water over the roar of the isobutane flame. 

“Breakfast is ready,” she eventually sang out with exuberance.

On the horizon behind her, mist was already replaced by shimmering mirages of heat. Their naked swim in the warm pond the night before had been almost romantic, at first. When they emerged, the full-body leech check in LED lamplight bludgeoned any sexiness he initially felt being nude in the woods with a woman by moonlight. 

“Coming,” John called as he rolled onto his back. He knew his portion of oatmeal would grow cold and sticky the longer he waited.

Sara was the only reason John was sleeping in a sodden tent ripe with the odor of two unwashed humans. She had always wanted to hike parts of the AT. He had always liked the idea of hiking it. That was close enough to the same thing, he decided, so he agreed to join her for a two-week trip.

John knew it would be hard, but didn’t realize how uncomfortable it would be. His pack with life-sustaining provisions changed his center of gravity and threw him off balance with every step. He was never able to slake his thirst with tepid water laced with iodine drops. He had blisters. Not just any blisters, either, mammoth ones on his heels, toes, hips, even the middle of his back. 

He had to conquer pooping in the woods, too. He read how-to guides before they left, proving exactly how far removed he was from his ancestors’ life experiences. To him, each day was grueling and a little scary. Each day augmented her energy. She thirsted for the next summit. He quaked and shuddered and feared the same milestones.

“This is what we do for love, and the best love doesn’t always come easy,” John had reminded himself more than once during the first week on the trail. His exact mantra changed from day to day but sounded something like, “Love is backpack straps cutting into my shoulders,” or, “Love is bruised toenails from knocking against my hiking boots,” or “Love is being able to wear the same stinking clothes for a week.”

As he lay in the tent, his body asked if it was worth it. His metaphorical heart answered, “yes” so emphatically that John found the energy to pull on his shorts and boots in a squirmy, awkward ordeal while lying on his back in the tiny tent. He emerged clumsily to sit next to Sara and eat his lukewarm oatmeal.

She beamed at him, “I found some berries to put in it.”

John smiled back at her and hugged her with his left arm as he balanced the bowl on his knees, looking at three blue orbs resting on top. There was a small leaf in there too.

Instead of aftershave and deodorant, he shuddered at the eau de DEET and sweat permanently ingrained in his moisture wicking shirt. He didn’t understand it, but body odor was an aphrodisiac for Sara. Though he had a slight growing tolerance for painful joints, odors still assaulted his senses. John couldn’t relax on the nights she pressed her body against his sticky, sweaty skin late at night in their tent, but he couldn’t help but respond either.

As they broke up the campsite and packed bags, Sara kept up a monologue about birds, trees, mushrooms, anything and everything. John had stopped listening. Not because he didn’t care. He had a lot on his mind.

They shouldered their packs and she led the way up the trail. He tried to match her delicate hops from one rock to another in a small stream. His feet ended up wet. A recurring question distracted him from feeling his soaked socks.

When should I do it? 

Sara interrupted his thoughts, “Two more miles and we will stop and eat.” She checked her GPS watch and scrolled on the tiny map. The device was about twice the size of his watch and looked like a small orange turtle strapped to her delicate wrist.

“Great,” was all he could reply, already hungry.

The weight of the ring in his pack seemed to multiply each day on the trail, even when, box included, it couldn’t be more than an ounce or two. In the last twenty-four hours, his pack seemed impossibly heavy.

John’s stomach growled. 

Sara looked back at his sweaty face and cheerfully said, “Let’s stop early and eat, I’m getting really hungry.” 

John nodded. In a shady spot just off the trail they found a suitable downed tree to sit on. Sarah un-shouldered her pack and undid the string closure as she sat. She pulled out a block of greasy-looking cheese and a bag of trail mix. 

John sat down next to her before removing his pack and almost tipped over as the pack’s weight pulled him backward on the round log. Sara reached out her hand and caught him.

Steadying himself, he unbuckled the chest strap and waist strap and swung the pack to the ground. His sweaty back cooled quickly. A bird sang a lonely, descending trill in the forest behind them. 

“Is that a veery?” John asked, thinking he recognized the lyric voice within the bird chatter.

“It is,” Sara beamed at him as she handed him a slice of cheese. “It’s syrinx allows it to sing two notes at the same time.” 

Praise for successfully recognizing the bird song was like emotional jet fuel. John reached into the depths of his bag, feeling for the little box. Sara was looking off through the woods, waving away blackflies with a halfhearted gesture, more instinct than intent, rhythmic yet ineffective.

“And that’s an Ovenbird,” Sara gestured towards harsh notes buried in the thick woods. Her other hand, with bits of cheddar on the fingertips, was sitting palm-up on her leg. 

John placed the little box into it.

“Say something, say something,” he thought the Eastern Wood Peewee was saying with its repetitive calls in the tree above them. John realized he really was learning things, without even trying. He smiled up at the demure bird looking down at them, head cocked in solidarity, awaiting an answer.

John had considered thousands of words in dozens of miles. The proposal was nothing like what he imagined. No grand setting, no overblown (though true) words of his love. He had handed the ring to her with as much rigmarole as when they exchanged a bag of trail mix. 

He knew it was the right way, though. Just like he finally understood how instant coffee on the trail could taste as good as a cup from her fancy machine. Despite its worth, the ring wouldn’t be as valuable as a high-calorie snack bar if they were starving in the woods. What’s important is relative, and transient.

A cacophony of birds filled Sara’s silence. John closed his eyes to better distinguish the locusts calling out as they woke in the heat of the day. He stretched out his mosquito-bitten legs, which made his calves cramp up again. He relaxed into the painful spasm this time because he knew it wouldn’t last. None of the discomfort of the trip would. He waited patiently for Sara’s answer. He thought he knew what it would be, so he let himself imagine how they would tell the story.