Strangely enough, these are some of my fondest wilderness-based memories. I’m sure I’ve had near-flawless backpacking trips where I didn’t forget my food, chose the perfect bluff-side campsite, and woke up early enough to see a magnificent sunrise, but I don’t remember them. And honestly, I don’t go backpacking for the sunrises, or the chance to see otter in their native habitat, or any other hippie crap like that. I go backpacking halfway hoping that something will go wrong. I’m not wishing for a full on attack from cannibal rednecks or an Aron Ralston “cut your arm off” situation here. But accidentally setting your tent up over a hornet’s nest or having to drink rum for two days straight because there’s no water to be found? That builds character.
Maybe it stems from the family camping trips my father dragged his boys on when I was a kid. A couple of times a year, we’d invade various state parks in North Georgia for a weekend of bickering, failed fishing attempts, and late night runs to the nearest Burger King because of the failed fishing attempts. Tents always leaked, food was always forgotten, people always fell into rivers fully clothed, canoes were sunk, fireworks were smuggled into tents, tents were set ablaze. By all accounts, these camping trips were disasters, but they were also spectacular. I’ve never seen my father smiling as much as when we weren’t catching fish together. I’ve never laughed as hard as when my brothers popped a hole in our raft and we started sinking in the middle of a river.
As for the frostbitten toes, three months later I got the feeling back in those little digits, no amputation necessary. In my book, that’s a successful backpacking trip.
