I've been back a month now since I walked 78 miles on the John Muir Trail. Photographer Mark Crosse and I walked more than 15 miles on the last day. We had this magnificent glow when we reached the four-wheel drive for the ride home.
I have to write about the glow -- the one you get coming out of a long-term backpack through a place as wild and remote as the Sierra backcountry in Kings Canyon National Park.
It is simultaneously the best and worst thing about extended backpacking. I crave it. Then, when it departs, I swear it off. Ever have a real bad hangover? You hurt so bad that you're sure you can feel embalming fluid scavenging every vitamin in your blood, and you would shoot the sun for being so bright. That's how it feels.
Sadly, we were unconcious about the glow when we returned, and that may be the thing I regret most now. This happens every time I spend more than three days in the wilderness. With all the planning and work and nature, I just forget about the glow afterward. I get so bummed about losing the glow that I'm not sure I even want to get it back.
When we got off the trail, we ate greasy cheeseburgers, drank beer and drove the two hours back to Fresno. Then, strangely, I found myself staring into a steaming shower. It was like I just woke up. I must have stood there five minutes before it sunk in: This was not a dream. I actually did this backpack. And, now, for the first time in eight days, I would actually get clean in a hot shower. I had been washing off in freezing creeks and lakes for days.
I went to bed after talking an hour with my wife, who marveled at my beard and my skinny body. I dropped eight pounds. I am 5-11, 155 normally. At 147 with a shaggy graying beard, I had a real wino chic thing going.
I didn't sleep that night. My lungs burned from being in the polluted San Joaquin Valley. I had been breathing above 10,000 feet for more than a week. But my sleep problem was more than that. I was still stoked and glowing from the backpack. And I did not understand, nor did I expect it.
I drove my wife to work the next morning and drank a sweet latte while staring at the sky. The glow was really going on. I heard birds. I noticed insects. I looked at trees, shrubs and other vegetation. I was smiling at strangers. I was not the same person as I was before I trekked those 78 miles.
Apparently, I cannot spend that much time outside in an unspoiled place like northern Kings Canyon National Park without acquiring this glow.
Unfortunately, this flatland madness set in again several days later. I was at work when I realized what was going on. My editor was asking about my story. The phone was ringing. Someone stood behind me with a written message. The artificial lighting surrounded me. I was doing three or four things at once. I wasn't on a natural high anymore. The glow was gone. And I was living again in this place filled with barking dogs, worried bosses, screaming children, angry drivers, fibbing politicians ... and on, and on. Frankly, I was depressed.
Now I definitely don't want to spend another eight days in the wilderness. That's too long for me. I just got too much of the glow.
Nope. Not going back for a long backpack any more. Not going to do it. Wouldn't be prudent. Wouldn't be worth it. Not a chance.
OK, OK, I am so lying. I'm weak. I'm a hopeless junkie. I'm looking at my maps and wondering where I can go next summer. I'll go five days. Maybe six, or eight or something.
Maybe I'll take the maps with me in December when I go snowshoeing. I can get out there and consider my next trip on a cold afternoon in the Sierra. I can fall asleep on a rock next to a frozen lake, as I did last winter, and be in the outdoors while I plan to get outdoors.
Gotta go. Hands are shaking now. Withdrawals. Heaven help me.
