The Trial Run

It had been months — no, probably closer to a year — since she had been camping, an activity that ranked among her favorite but had somehow managed to go unperformed. The last time she had done any sort of camping, much less back-country camping, was with her now-ex-boyfriend. The two, in love with each other and with nature, had had entire summer’s where every weekend was a trek to another part of the state, the country, the world — always the goal of walking out into The Great Outdoors, pack upon back, able and ready to disappear from reality for days at a time.

She imagined her camping skills at this point had become much like her sex life — after all this time a bit rusty.

She had visited REI with her future camping compatriot, a beautiful jewelry-maker living in Sebastopol who’s daal was as killer as her verbal rapier. Old friends from high school, they had reconnected when the one had moved back to California.

“You like camping?” the girl had asked. “I like camping.” And it was settled. They’d go camping. It had been awhile for either and would serve as a trial run for more camping to come.

Gliding through the cool aisles of REI felt like visiting a childhood home — she knew intimately the feel of every stair, could blindly navigate among the sultry camping stoves and alluring water purifiers, could feel without touching the shape of SmartWool socks in her hand…. mmmm, SmartWool.

Friday finally came, and they set out in rented car — red, tinny, bare-bones — to Big Sur. It took them as long drive the half-mile to leave San Francisco along traffic-clogged Montgomery Street as it did to drive the 70 miles south. And by the time they had snaked their way down Hwy 1 and arrived at their destination it was dark and without vacant camping sites.

So they slept in the car at the side of the road.

While her compatriot reclined the front seat to a barely 145 degree-angle, the girl opted for the trunk. “It’s really quite cozy,” she contended. “For an amputee.”

The next morning the two girls awoke stiffly but determined, and set out to find a much-needed cup of coffee. With the aid of caffeine, some trail mix, and a two-day-one-night camping permit, they packed up their gear and were about to embark when the girl realized there had been one minor detail overlooked: she had forgotten her hiking shoes and had only the sandals on her feet. Oops.

No matter! “WWMD? (What Would MacGyver Do?)” she asked herself. Surely he would have not let this hold him back from a 14 mile hike back-country. Hmmm…

As she walked out of the local grocery store with bright turquoise water booties for $10.99, she was sure she had made a wise subsitute.

They were off. They were ready. In their haste, they failed to remember water and a map. (Did we mention this was a trial run?)

They recognized this fact when, several miles in, the celery sticks and asian pears failed to quench their thirst. Deciding it was a desperate situation, they took a turn-off to the first camp in search of a water source. However, 15 minutes after gracefully slipping down the dirt-slide of a trail they caught a glimpse of the just how far down the river was below, and turned around.

“There’s got to be a creek or something where we can use our water purifier.” And there was. Squatting by a trickling crack in the rock they patiently filtered enough water to get them to their destination.

Eventually they made it to their destination campground. Madrone, oak and redwood trees had already peppered the ground with red, yellow and brown leaves, and the path unraveled before them like nature’s crunchy red carpet. “That brook is actually babbling,” one remarked. “Not whispering or laughing or shouting, but babbling; this is heaven.”

And it was. The air was fresh with the tango of warm dirt and cool river mist, with husky tree bark playing the maracas.

Thirsty, they filled their Nalgenes again with newly-pumped water. Ravenous, they started a pot boiling for mac and cheese. Content, they sat on a log and thought about the sweet nothing that lay before them.

“It’s remarkable how unremarkable I feel. So this is what is feels like to, like, be.”

“Yup.”

“Cool.” The girl smiled.

There was more delicious unremarkableness that occurred. And then they went to bed. And when they woke up, they make themselves their agreed favorite morning camping treat: Folger’s Instant Coffee.

“You know why camping is such a treat?” The girl’s compatriot asked.

“No, do tell.”

“Well, because you get to let every convention go. And I don’t just mean leave the make-up at home. I mean, when else can you piss on yourself when squatting and not brush your teeth for three days?”

The girl cocked her head to one side and looked sky-ward, imagining the scenario. Walking into a client meeting, her crisp collared shirt and matching pumps, she would sit down. She would flip open her palm pilot and do something official-looking. How are you this morning? someone would ask her.

Well, actually, she would reply calmly, her pearl earrings delicately dangling from each lobe, this morning I pissed on my ankle, took a bath in a river and didn’t brush my teeth again. And you, Frank?

“I see your point clearly,” she told her compatriot, smiling.

The hike back was neither harder nor easier — on one hand, the pads of her feet were screaming; on the other other, she had water. When they arrived back at the car they knew what was next, and necessary. A nice cold beer.

Over-looking the California coast from the balcony of Nepenthe, a local restaurant/retreat, they found just that. The tangerine sun was high yet and everything else colored in shades of blue or green. With a great exhale one of them raised her glass.

“To trial runs!”

“To trial runs.”

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[For W.B.]