There are a few things I have learned with certainty--for example, if I don't take it along I will surely need it, and if it is free from fat and sugar it is not worth eating. Not being in control of certain (OK, all) circumstances is one of the things I have discovered causes me a good amount of mental and emotional distress. If I feel I'm not in possession of it (control), the world can be a scary place for me. Therefore, it is with a mixture of dread and excitement that I begin my first backpacking adventure into the Peaks Wilderness. For me, the resultant mishmash of insecurities brings forth feelings of powerlessness--there are far too many parameters that will be out of my control for me to be at my homeostatic best. Will I be too cold? Too hot? Get wet? Can I carry 100 lbs for 3 days? My pack probably won't weigh quite that much, but still I fret. So, I just chew a few fingernails and consume most of a double batch of bread pudding and try to accept the unknown.

I awake on the morning of our departure date to the entropy of procrastination--the story of my life. This morning I am faced with the frustrating task of cramming last-minute-just-thought-of-but-oh-so-necessary items into my pack and it's not just a few: nose spray, the eggs, spare batteries, my small digital camera, napkins, something to jot on and a pen or pencil. Oh, and I forgot to stash toilet paper. Oh well, I'll just use my Red Roof Inn complimentary tissue pack. Yesterday I had finally abandoned the intention (was I insane?) of bringing my coveted, full sized tube of Pringles and a sack of marshmallows along with me. There was simply no room and I opted for more important things like an extra pair of Polartec underwear, a fleece cap and gloves. The marshmallows weighed a pound (I can hear the backpacking community gasping in disbelief) and if brought along would occupy in my pack a volume larger than that of my down jacket, wool socks and rain gear combined. I don't know what my pack will weigh at capacity, but I'm figuring somewhere between 60 and 100 lbs.  I will no doubt redefine 'essential' on this adventure. I find my disorganization disturbing but not at all surprising.

So I pack what I can and say a tearful goodbye to what I cannot--my fingers linger one last second on the bag of marshmallows still on the counter-- and I head out the door, a wee bit more tardy than fashionable. I have heard various threads of psychobabble about why certain individuals tend to be late, and this morning I am buying into the one that indicates I delayed the inevitability of this particular adventure because I really do not want to go. Maybe Paul and Charles will be angry that I am 17 minutes late and leave without me. Then I will have no choice but to return home and roast my pound of marshmallows on the Weber grill while lounging on the deck, drinking wine and watching my 48 inch flat screen TV through the picture windows.

I arrive at Paul's house and no one has left me. I am surprised and pleased to discover my aforementioned feelings of helplessness are replaced with excitement. There is safety in numbers. I weigh in with my pack and discover my burden weighs only 45 pounds. I am somewhat disappointed because it feels like it weighs so much more. I am carrying 12 lbs of water (which displaced the Pringles and marshmallows plus more empty calories I would have liked to bring) and Kippy carries 4 lbs, bringing the 3 day total of agua for myself and the two dogs to 2 gallons. There is a saying when doing anything outdoors in the desert--high mountain or otherwise--and that is 'hydrate or die'. I usually like to test blanket statements such as this by doing the opposite but I have been dehydrated before and I felt like dying and really wanted to but did not so I now wholeheartedly embrace the sentiment. Though I am still nervous about running out of water, I can carry no more and try to push the issue out of my mind. Soon all 3 of our human backpacks, both dog backpacks and the five of us are loaded into my suburban and we are ready to go.

The parking area for the start of our adventure is only about 9 miles away, but it seems like 90 to me. I become more alarmed with each passing mile and subsequent one thousand vertical foot-gain at the rapidity with which the ambient temperature (displayed prominently on my rear-view mirror) seems to be dropping. Paul makes an innocent aside about never imagining it would be THIRTY FIVE degrees out at this low an elevation, and my heart sinks with dread. I fear deep down in the most primal area of my brain that screams 'turn back!' that I am screwed. 

We park and I adjust dog backpacks and place Kate's booties on her sensitive front feet. It has been 5 years since she has carried a backpack--she has worn the booties recently--and she is battling some heavy-duty demons of her own as I snug everything up or more accurately, loosen it. Like most of us, she has gained girth along with wisdom as she ages. She stands planted as though her feet are on the last tiny islands of cool earth and hot magma flows all around her. She begins to tremble, then to vibrate and I can see she is having an emotional meltdown right here in the parking area before she has even taken one step. Wonderful. (She and I are more alike than I care to admit).

We start the hike without her, but she doesn't budge. Now her teeth are chattering and she is almost convulsing, so whacked is she in her present mental state. 20 yards on down the trail I walk, now 30 yards. I call to her, trying to conceal the pity I feel for her welling up inside my chest along with the urge to just take her backpack off and carry it myself. Tentatively, she moves a front foot forward in slow motion.  Then she pauses. I call again, resisting the insipid urge to coerce her by promising a cookie in trade for progress. Slowly, haltingly, she begins to move forward. Now my pity is replaced by irritation and I do what most parents would do in similar situations, I ignore her and move on. My ears feel as though they might break free from my head as they attempt to swivel around in order to hear her response to my new tack, and after what seems an eternity, I hear the familiar scuffing of her booties on the rocky trail. Praise Jesus. The Kelpie is following.

As we round the first graceful curve of the mountain, I am staggering under the weight of my pack. My hip bones are already sore and my right clavicle rubs mercilessly against the corresponding shoulder strap of my pack. I assume it is my scoliatic spine throwing the weight I carry off at odd angles. I doubt we have gone a mile. I am wondering how I will manage an additional 4 miles when suddenly the wind rips through the aspen trees and begins tearing limbs the size of my legs off the smooth trunks, hurling them through the air and to the ground around us like enemy spears in a battle. Smaller branches, leaves and clumps of grass fly willy-nilly about us in miniature tornadic vortices and I resist the urge to tear my pack off, leaving it in the path as I turn tail and run for the car. The irony in the fact that I may not perish--as my mother fears--- in a fiery car crash on a remote stretch of interstate but rather from being broken into a million pieces under a fallen tree is not lost on me.

I have always believed (naively, perhaps) that I am somewhat in control of my fate, but that feeling evaporates from me now, and I embrace a new belief in destiny as a means to keep from panicking. I now feel certain that the day I was destined to die was written in the annals of my life before the stars were even born and cannot be changed now: surely this is not the time or place for my promising life to end. My mind races as I struggle to think thoughts other than those of death and I subconsciously begin humming the theme song to 'The Wizard of Oz' as things that should never fly about in the woods pass dangerously close to my head. I convince myself that some historic society is re-enacting a civil war battle nearby, then realize the sounds I mistook for musket fire are actually live trees snapping in half and falling to the forest floor. The wind is tossing us around like styrofoam cups on a stormy sea. (Later we learn that the wind was gusting over 100 mph on the mountain). As trees close by and off in the distance crack and crash, I am filled with worry; not of being killed, but of not being killed--impaled by an errant limb or crushed beneath a tree trunk too heavy for rescue personnel to lift from my broken body before the essence of my life ebbs away. There is little comfort in telling myself that at least I will be maimed or killed doing something I love, assuming I change my mind about backpacking quickly. It seems so poetic to be able to say those words about others that meet their untimely demise in similar fashions. As strange as it now seems, turning back on the adventure was really never an option for me.

There is a certain feeling of empowerment in finally realizing that you are totally reliant upon yourself, your intellect and skills--no matter how keen or lame--for your very survival. As I push on against my better judgment, I come to the realization that I may not die under a fallen tree after all today. With that in mind--and the renewed faith that comes with it--I take comfort in concluding that a moving target is more difficult to hit than a stationary one. I continue to put one foot in front of the other, covering ground slowly but surely as I move forward. My worries about spinal curvature and pack dynamics are erased as I survive one moment to the next, and I am filled with a sense of righteousness.

For me there is no greater joy than to see my dogs being dogs. Not tongue-lolling-throw-me-the-ball dogs but the primal animals they evolved as. This coupled with their apparent enjoyment of the endless adventures I thrust them into brings me great delight. Kate is the ever watchful guardian, and Kip the fun-loving free spirit. Kate now faces into the wind and tests the air for danger (there is plenty), and there appears to be a look of supreme satisfaction upon her canine countenance that cannot be duplicated in our cushy home. I feel honored and safe to be under her watchful eye, to have her by my side. Her phobias concerning booties and backpacks forgotten for the moment, she gives no clue as to whether she is as frightened of mother nature at this moment as I.

We stop for lunch on an old logging road next to a narrow ravine in the forest, temporarily lulled into a sense of security by the fact that the wind does not appear to be blowing with hurricane force in this particular location. While enjoying our meal we are brought quickly to our feet by a groan and a crack. Poorly visualized but most certainly heard and felt through the dense vegetation--too close for comfort--a dead tree crashes to the forest floor; tiny branches and bark raining down like candy from a well-placed piņata strike. Kate jumps into action-- hackles raised-- as she bounds down the old logging road stiff-legged and threatening, barking a fearful (the impression I got) warning to whatever it was causing the ruckus.

Suddenly, from down in the ravine, an enormous turkey bolts from cover onto the road and is immediately pursued by the hyper sensitive prey-driven Kelpie. I don't allow my dogs to harry wildlife, but the situation unfolding before me (it seemed with a life all it's own) struck me so comically that my calls to the runaway black dog came out mutely. She must have run him to the turkey equivalent of 'ground', for just when I believed he had eluded her, the crazy tom took to the wing. Now, turkeys are not the swiftest birds of flight to begin with and this one was no exception-- especially considering the fact that whatever flight skills he was in possession of were hampered by dense vegetation and a 50 mph tailwind. This left him bowling ass over teakettle down the narrow passage above the logging road straight for us as he struggled to gain control. He had to fly low to the ground to keep from crashing into tree limbs and if a turkey could possess enough emotion to muster an expression, the one I fancied registered upon his visage was one of lidless surprise--eyes open wide like full moons, his fear palpable.   "Look out!" I shouted as I evacuated my position in the middle of the road and dove for cover.  The big bird pulled up-- no less impressive than a 747 taking off with a couple engines out-- and tumbled through the narrow gap above us as if some prankster at the GM plant had tossed him into a wind tunnel. I could have caught him by his feet if I'd stood to full height (and had the desire to). The turkey passed noisily but seemingly unharmed over us and out of sight, wings flapping madly and tail feathers pushed up behind his tiny pin head. I doubled over and laughed until tears ran down my cheeks. I was sure this was one of the funniest things I would ever see in my lifetime. The comic moment gave us respite from our worries, but it was time to press on. We needed to find a camp for the night that offered shelter from the wind.

We found such a place in a deep meadow protected by sturdy fir trees. The aspen that were nearby would be stopped (or so we hoped) by the boughs of the conifers should they succumb to the wind and topple. I moved my tent after we heard a loud crack and witnessed a live aspen tree, 2 feet in diameter and 60 feet tall, crash to the ground not 100 feet from our camp. I ended up relocating my tent more into the middle of the meadow than I preferred, but figured I'd take my chances with exposure to the elements over being crushed by a tree while sleeping. Charles fashioned a safe fire pit (one of his fortes) and we started our fire, taking care to keep it small lest a microburst of wind happen down upon it, casting embers out into the surrounding forest. We did not need an epic like starting a forest fire to make this trip any more memorable than it had already become.

Nothing tastes as good as food cooked on an open fire, and we salivated as we smelled our reconstituted stew simmering in the Folgers coffee can on the coals. I ate greedily and the only thing amiss was roasted marshmallows for dessert.