Baby steps

First backpacking trip after the surgery meant more than the usual amount of pre-trip anxiety. Jan gave me a pep-talk over the phone. Her last words: “Turn around if it doesn’t feel right.”

I almost didn’t go. It rained all morning and I just laid in bed, worrying. I am only four weeks and 3 days post-op. Is backpacking this soon foolish?

Then, something clicked in my brain and I leapt out of bed, grabbed my pack and started driving.

There I was at the empty trailhead, ominous clouds and snow flurries. Weighing my pack one last time (12 lbs total). Starting down the trail. Baby steps.

Was it still feeling right? No pain like I’d been fearing, but instead the solid, familiar feeling of my backpack against my back. Comforting. Like all is right with the world and nothing bad could ever happen.

Thank goodness the trail really was flat like I remembered.

Up ahead, blue sky. Maybe things would work out as predicted. (The forecast had said 0% chance of rain. Wind 10 mph becoming calm. Lows in the upper teens.)

I set up my tent in the lee of a rock outcrop, between massive, gnarled pinyons. A bit of a walk from the sunset view but more sheltered.

Without my pack, I skip along the slickrock, watching the sky, comparing the views from different angles. What did the doctor say about rock scrambling again? What about leaping from boulder to boulder?

I loose myself in the sky, become one with the rocks. Forget to be nervous.

Ravens swooping, dancing in the wind.

 I don’t know if its because I’m giddy from the excitement of finally being able to backpack after feeling so awful. Or because there is some magic happening with the snow-clouds and the light. But this is the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.

(Even though you all know I say that about every sunset.)
 
 It is incredible to be out here, feeling like there is no where in the entire world I’d rather be. Knowing that I can’t ever, will never take this for granted. The ability to strap on my pack and feel it pressing against my back with everything I need.
Peaceful and expansive. I ignore the biting wind that starts to pick up as the sun dips below the horizon.

By the time the colors fade to deep blue, the wind is battering me about. I make my way back to my camp, leaning into the wind to steady myself. My tent is topsy-turvy, in the arms of the tree.

I struggle to upright my tent, pound stakes into shallow sand, re-wrap guy-lines around larger rocks, pile more rocks on tent stakes, and roll more rocks down the hill to attach to more guy-lines. All with fingers frozen from the cold. All while fighting to keep the tent from blowing away. Then I panic and realize that I’m not suppose to lift stuff, then remember, no as of three days ago, I can lift stuff but what about big boulders? I palpate my groin to see if my intestines are all in place or if they have planned another escape.

Next, I dive into the tent, throw the sleeping bag over me. The roar of the wind shakes the tent violently and I wait to see if my rocks and rope will hold. Until I feel heat getting trapped by the bag, and the panic subsides, and I laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This is NOT the easy, gentle trip I’d envisioned. So much for baby-steps. But at least it’s not raining, I think. Yep, it could always be worse.

Spoonfuls of peanutbutter are my “hiker-midnight” snack. (i.e. 9 PM) Hopefully that’ll jumpstart my metabolism to keep me warm through the night. I’ve got my down booties, 10-degree WM bag, down coat and down hat. Should be OK.

A sound. Not wind. Not animal. Headlampt on, I unzip the tent. SNOW. How can it be sticking to the tent with all this wind? But there it is. So much for 0% chance percip. WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING OUT HERE! I could be at home in a warm bed, but instead, I don’t know what will happen, if I will be OK. If the forecast is that wrong, how much snow will we get? Will I be stuck?

I consider packing up and hiking the 2-miles out to my car but then I remember I don’t have a raincoat or even my ten essentials (except headlamp). That all got ditched to reduce my pack weight. Because my biggest fear is re-injury. I figured my emergency gear being in my car, two-miles away, was close enough. This is what’s called going “stupid-light.”

(Not to mention I'm scared of driving in the snow. Not to mention that I haven't walked 4 miles with a pack since the surgery and that would definitely not be considered baby-steps).

I lay in my bag listening to the wind and the snow. Thinking all the thoughts that one does. Popping my head out of the tent to see the clouds parting to reveal a starry sky. Flooded with relief that it’s not a blizzard, just passing flurries. More wind drives the snow off my tent and away. The sky is awash with stars and the air smells sharp and delicious.

I am so utterly happy.

More information

Backcountry camping permits are required for Island in the Sky in Canyonlands National Park. Pack out all your trash, toilet paper, and use a wag-bag for your poop. Walk and camp on slickrock or in washes, avoiding fragile biological soil crust.

Always check the weather forecast (but never trust it) and always carry the 10 essentials (don't be stupid).