Outdoors

Every now and then I get this urge to be outdoors. I get tired of my office. Tired of sitting behind a desk all day. Tired of not getting out there and enjoying God’s creation.

A friend sent my kids a subscription to a back packing magazine. They live in the southwest of the USA where they are surrounded by opportunities to take a hike. I thumbed through the mag and felt a strong urge to be anywhere but here.

I hate camping because whenever someone tried to take me camping I could never see the point of it. I guess I should qualify that by saying I don’t see the point of camping unless it is on the way to somewhere or to do something. Camping on a fishing or hunting trip I’m fine. Camping while climbing a mountain or hiking a trail, no problem. But camping just to sit around and swat mosquitoes, no thanks.

I grew up in Africa where I spent a lot of time outdoors. We climbed a few mountains but mostly we went hunting. I went to a boarding school that was surrounded by mountains, jungle, and grassland which provided ample opportunity to “get out there” and we took full advantage.

Planning a camping trip in those days began by gathering everything we thought we would need to stay warm, safe, and comfortable. We would place the huge mass of gear in the middle of an old army surplus sleeping bag liner and roll it up as tight as we could. After tying it all together we would balance it precariously on the back of a motorcycle, which took a lot more tying, and off we would go.

The word “road” had a lot of different meanings there. It could mean anything from asphalt to a track that was at least wide enough to squeeze a vehicle through. The latter would usually lead to a small village where a vehicle would maybe show up twice a year. From there we would take our motorcycles on footpaths that led farther out to the farms of the villagers. After going as far as we could it would be time to abandon the motorcycles and start hiking.

We would untie our gear from our motorcycles and throw it over our shoulders. I’m not sure we even knew what a backpack was in those days. We usually made it about 200 yards before we would realize we brought way too much junk. We would leave everything behind except for a pot of uncooked rice, salt, matches, canteen, and a tree hammock. We’d pick up the rest on the way back.

Those camps were never comfortable. We would always have good food (hunting is different there) but the hammocks would only be comfortable for a few hours and we were never warm enough no matter how big we made the fire. We never let that dampen our spirits though because the camp wasn’t the focus of the trip. It was the hunt, or the climb, or the hike. We wouldn’t have endured the hardship just to camp.

I lost a lot of my appetite for the outdoors over the years. I went hunting here in the US a few times but I never got away from the sounds of cars on a highway somewhere near by. Somehow that ruined it. I knew there were places I could go but I never went. I read Bryson’s book about his hike on the Appalachian Trail and thought it sounded great. But it was too far away.

My kid’s magazine has an article highlighting hiking opportunities in various regions of the USA. I eagerly turned to the Midwest section only to find that the nearest one is several hundred miles away. That kind of puts a damper on things.

Of course there are hiking trails in Indiana and I would probably be surprised if I took the time to check them out. For some reason I keep picturing myself trudging along the border of a bean field from one small woodlot to the next. But I’m sure there are nice trails available. It’s just that the thought of hiking in Indiana is not very motivating.

For now I’ll just think about it. I’ll picture myself alone on a trail stopping to take in an inspiring overlook. I’ll imagine the wind rustling in the trees and the sounds of the wildlife playing in their world. At least this way I can leave out the mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, and thistle out of the picture.