Outward Bound
Katie Cueva
Outward Bound
The rough fabric of the backpack straps rubbed against my already raw shoulders as I ran down the steep slope. The weight of the backpack slapped against my lower back, and I slowed to a stop as I looked out over the murky brown lake. The water level had long since sunk below the point where you could safely jump off the rotting wooden pier, and a single dog splashed around in the water in search of his ball. Sure, the lake wasn’t necessarily the most beautiful spot in the park, but I still hoped the views would be more rewarding on the trip I was preparing for. I had been planning for a backpacking trip since almost a year before, when the trip got canceled due to Covid. Hopefully, this year I’d have more luck.
A few weeks later, it was time to start packing. We had been reviewing the packing list and buying the things I didn’t already have online, and we finally had all but a few items. I scoured the room for my fleece jacket, feeling the anxiety build up inside of me. Had I trained enough for the trip? Even though I consistently worked out, I still felt I was out of shape compared to usual. The last thing I wanted to happen was to hold the group up because of my physical capabilities. Really, my only goal was to make it through the backpacking course without embarrassing myself and hopefully get something valuable out of the experience.
“How’s it going?” my mom asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Um, good, yeah, I was just looking for my fleece jacket,” I responded.
“Did you lose it?” she asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow. I had a bad habit of losing things, especially jackets.
“I don’t think so . . . Oh! Here it is!” I pulled my fleece out of my highly disorganized dresser, relieved I wouldn’t have to pay for another lost clothing item. My relief was quickly replaced by anxiety as a discouraging thought entered my head. If I couldn’t even keep track of my things back home, there was no way I’d make it through the backpacking course with all my things. Over the course of the next three or four weeks, I continued packing and organizing the things I’d need to bring, each item making me more and more uncertain of how I’d be able to carry it all on my back.
When the day to leave arrived, my family and I made the three hour trip to Fresno, where we all stayed with my great-aunt and uncle for a couple days before the start of my backpacking trip.
After two days of lazing around in the pool and eating BLTs, we finally made it to the airport and easily found our group waiting by the entrance. There were people from three different courses there, all to leave from the same basecamp. After a half hour or so, we went outside and boarded the bus. We all met at the airport because there were kids flying in from around the country, although luckily the airport was driving distance from our house. Around three hours later, when we stepped off of the bus we were met with a stunning view. Crystal blue waters shimmered under the setting sun, surrounded by thousands of green trees and stunning rock peaks. The cold, thin air filled my lungs, letting me know that we were at a high altitude. I grabbed my duffel and followed the group of people down the hill. We walked for about half an hour, across a dam and down a narrow road. There we waited for the next few minutes as we were sorted into our course groups, a chilly breeze drawing a collective shiver from us. We put our things down as we entered our campsite for that night, grateful for the rest. Our campsite was a flat area of white rock with a few small bushes and shrubs, surrounded by forest and a view of three or four rock peaks.
We were instructed to stand in a circle, and I let my mind wander as we ran through a few icebreakers. I carefully examined the people around me, wondering who they were and where they came from. There was almost a sense of anonymity that came with the course, knowing that they came from all over the country, and I would more-than-likely never see any of them again. I could just be myself without fear of judgement or being seen a certain way. It was almost as if there was an unspoken agreement that we could tell each other anything and it would stay on the course. I know it’s silly, but the thing I remember most about that night was how long we had to wait for dinner. We hadn’t eaten since before the bus, and I could have sworn we spent hours sorting our clothing and other things into our backpacks.
“Dinner!” a thin kid, who I was pretty sure was named Finn, yelled. I jumped up and ran across the rock to where a group of the kids stood. I could smell it now: pasta and meat sauce with vegetables on the side. Little did I know that this would be the first of many excruciatingly long dinner rituals I’d be participating in for the next twelve days.
First, we had to get all the bear cans and line them up in a circle for us to sit on. Then, we had to all get in a circle where the cooks, in this case, the resupply team, told us what we would be eating. Next, someone had to pick a quote from a small book one of our instructors carried and read it aloud to the group, a job we would all rotate through. Then we would all go around the circle and answer a prompt about our day or something similar proposed by another group member, which was also one of the jobs. Next, we all sang a humiliatingly long dinner song before we finally all lined up to get out food. Shame was one of the things we all learned to let go of sometime throughout that course.
The next morning, we woke up bright and early at around 7. We all got up and were told we were all going to participate in a stretching circle (which everyone groaned at, but I secretly enjoyed) and then the assigned cooks started making breakfast while the rest of us packed up camp. Once we had camp all packed up (with considerable help from the instructors) we all lined up to get breakfast. Thankfully, we wouldn’t have to go through the dinner ritual process every meal, only dinner. Next our instructors showed us how to pack our backpacks. First, our sleeping bag and clothing were stuffed down in the bottom, compressed as tight as they would go. Next the bear cans, since they weighed the most, and we wanted them in the middle of the pack. Lastly, any excess small clothing items, bug spray and sunscreen, and rain gear for easy access. The first time heaving the packs onto our backs, none of us could even do it without the help from an instructor. We all walked slowly and carefully around the camp, feeling strangely topheavy. Once all of us had our packs on, we began our first hike.
We walked back out to the road then about a mile down it, passing the reservoir again. We then turned off of the road and went into the woods. I should mention that walking with a 50 pound backpack, even on a flat, paved road, takes about twice as long. Little did I know that this was only the beginning. We passed down onto a steep, narrow trail that led down into the woods, climbing over logs and roots. A long time later, we arrived at the campsite, where we would spend the next three days rock climbing.
I lay on the warm face of the rock, peering up at my group members as they climbed and belayed. I had just finished a particularly challenging climb, where I had spent a considerable amount of time on one particular ledge where I couldn't seem to find a good foothold. Ordinarily, I might have given up and given someone else a turn for the sake of time, but we had all day. I had blisters on my feet, and the skin on my fingers was peeling off, but I would learn to think of pain as proof of my accomplishments. I finally was able to climb to the top of the wall, and it was the most rewarding climb I’ve ever done.
Hiking was tiring work, but I enjoyed the calmness of it all. I had nothing to stress about, and I could simply be alone with my thoughts. Almost as soon as I discovered that calm, I remembered the crucial element that I was so used to being readily available whenever I needed: music. In my regular life, I listen to music excessively, while I read, sleep, do homework, work out, clean the kitchen, and pretty much at every available opportunity. I recalled the last song I listened to before I left, “When Doves Cry” by Prince, one of my all time favorites. So much so, that my mom has actually forbidden me from playing it in the car anymore. I played it over and over in my head, imagining every pluck of the electric guitar, every note from the synthesizer.
“Wow, you have a really nice voice,” someone said from behind me, snapping me out of my haze. I swiveled my head around trying to look at the person who had just spoken to me. It was Marley, the talkative girl from earlier. I blushed as I considered what she had just said. I hadn’t even noticed I had been singing. Singing all the time is a bad habit of mine, even in everyday life when I’m not completely deprived of the dopamine rush I get every time I hear one of my favorite songs.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” I awkwardly replied, realizing it had been a second too long since she commented. “I really wish I could listen to real music right now, so this is my coping strategy.”
“Yeah, I’m super into music, too. Honestly I’m already missing showering though, and it’s only been a few nights,” she replied.
I supposed different things about the course would be harder for different people. For me, it would be the lack of music. For others, it would be the absence of hygiene, for some the cold would be the worst. Some people would miss their families, and others would miss eating good food. The mindset while backpacking is strange. You learn to let go of things that we’ve been taught to place value on that we don’t actually need. It’s less comfortable at first, and it’s definitely a challenge, but once you get used to it, it’s nice to live a life free of constructs and boundaries. Some things are big, like letting go of self image, and some are small, like not having enough clean socks. But it’s liberating to just let go for twelve days, knowing that once you return to the “real world” no one will know what truths were unveiled on that course.
The most challenging hike by far was on the 8th day, right in the middle of the course. We had mapped out the hike the before, and while no one actually knew exactly how long it would be, we knew it was longer than others we had done and would also be a stark increase in elevation. We hiked up a wooded trail, alongside a creek, through tall grass and wildflowers, across boulder fields, and up steep mountains. When we finally arrived, there was a beautiful lake surrounded by green trees and pure white rock, and the whole place had an air of purity, like it hadn’t been touched. The lake wasn’t even named on the map, but I felt like I could have spent the rest of my life there. It was like all the hard work we had put into the course had finally paid off. I was ecstatic when I learned we would be able to spend another day there at that campsite, relaxing and swimming in the lake. Hiking is really so much more fun when you let go of when you’re going to get there and just enjoy yourself.
Time was another thing we learned to let go of. One of the instructors’ favorite jokes was, whenever someone asked how much longer we had to hike, to simply hold up their pointer fingers some arbitrary distance apart, and reply, “This long.” I thought it was funny, but it really annoyed a lot of the kids.
Now that I think about it, a lot of things really annoyed them. They spent a lot of time arguing over where to stop for lunch or what was in whose bear can while I sang to myself and made flower crowns on the side. Flower crowns were one of my favorite parts about that course. There were such beautiful flowers, and I had such an abundance of time and mental space to make them. When the trip was over, we hiked back to base camp and got picked up by another bus early in the morning. It was strange adjusting back to normal life, having access to all the normal luxuries in day to day life.
All in all, the biggest thing I gained from Outward Bound was a new perspective on life. In day to day life, I find myself stressing less about when something’s going to end and focusing more on enjoying the moment, especially when I’m doing things that I might not immediately enjoy.
