September 23, 2016
Mile 2187.9-2216.1 28.2 Miles (No pictures today, sorry. I always forget to take pictures when it's raining) I emerge from my tent to find a brisk, breezy morning. I heard the trees swishing in the wind all night, but I was toasty warm in my bag. We pack in silence again, bracing against a piercing cold. When all has been packed away, we speak a single word: “Ready?” “Ready.” When the light emerges from the horizon an hour or so later, We are walking atop a ridge. There are berries on thick low bushes to either side of us, and fog blocks the view beyond a few trees. I wonder what type of berries these are. I’ve heard that Washington is filled with blueberries, but I don’t know how to identify them. They sure look like blueberries. We stop for water and see Pushup packing up his camp nearby. Another few miles, then a small descent to a piped spring where we stop for breakfast. A long, white pipe comes down out of the hillside to about chest level, where a thin stream of water slides out continually and falls next to the trail. We sit on a nearby log, cold and damp through the seat of my pants, to make breakfast. The hot oatmeal is gummy and overly sweet, but it’s hot. Right now, hot is all I need. Pushup catches up and passes us while we scrape our dishes clean. A light mist begins a few minutes later, which turns into a light drizzle as we hike. I dig my rain gear out, but can’t find my gloves in the black hole of my pack. As we hike on, I grip my hiking poles extra tight to try to get blood flowing to my hands. I try to sink into the feeling of coldness, stay present with it. As I do this, I notice that the aversiveness to the cold is a different feeling from the cold itself. As I stay with the feeling rather than distracting myself from it, the cold remains, but the aversiveness washes over me like a wave, then retreats. The cold remains, but I now I am at peace with it. I turn my attention to think about media culture to continue my thoughts from yesterday. This idea of shared, common ideas that we use to communicate has many results. For one thing, if the media we steep ourselves in is vastly different from others, we’re likely to see the world differently. The people who watch a lot of TV will have one set of references and beliefs, while the people who read books will have a completely different set. In our world, whole civilizations are built on different sets of ideas, such as communism vs capitalism. What does that mean for the good life? Is it better to steep ourselves in the dominant culture so we have the references to easily communicate with others? Or should we specialize in specific types of culture so that we can add different thoughts to the conversation? My instinct tells me that too far down either road is a trap. Someone who only watches the shows that everyone else watches and listens to the music to which everyone else listens will think the thoughts that everyone else thinks. The culture can’t progress that way; we will fall into the same traps, make the same mistakes, fight the same wars. On the other hand, someone who is too tightly specialized might have new ideas that could help move the culture in a positive direction, but they won’t have any common references with which to make their point. The truth is, we need a spectrum. Too many people on the fringes, and we’ll lose cultural cohesion and pull ourselves apart. Too many people in the center, and we’ll stagnate, and other cultures that adapt faster will quickly move to supplant us, in a sort “survival of the fittest” writ large upon cultures. If the culture is an organism subject to the laws of evolution, it would require people on the fringes to make it adaptable, but the majority of people should stay near the center, where they can help the cultural organism stick together. I visualize a large number of weakly magnetic balls, coming together and pulling apart depending on the beliefs and references they share. On the fringes and in the center, it’s impossible to move the mass, but somewhere in between, one magnetic ball can move a small group, which can move a larger group, which can finally move the mass. That, it seems to me, is the place of greatest impact. I catch up to Pushup, which pulls me out of my reveries. The landscape has changed. Oregon’s trees were often monothematic, possibly due to a long history of logging; Washington’s are wild and diverse. We are coming up on a lake with several side trails going in different directions. I don’t really want to stop in this rain, but it’s past lunchtime and we need to eat if we’re going to make any miles this afternoon. I fill up with water first, then stop at a campsite covered with trees a little ways from the lake, and Roadside and Pushup are right behind me. Pushup and I decide to make hot lunches, but Roadside just wants to eat some bars and go. He finishes eating right as my lunch is ready, and he waits around for me, shivering and wet, as we all are. There’s no reason for him to wait for me, but I appreciate the gesture. “Hey, do you want to keep going?” I ask. “No reason to sit here getting cold and wet, I’ll catch up.” “Yeah, thanks. I’ll see you.” Pushup finishes eating about the same time as me, but cleanup takes me much longer and he is long gone by the time I finally finish. My cold hands don’t quite want to do what I tell them, and it takes me some fumbling to get Zip-loc bags sealed, drybags rolled up, clasps clasped. I’m tired, but I’m also glad to get the blood flowing again. The afternoon passes quickly despite the continual drizzle. I catch up to Roadside quickly. Pushup has just passed him. The next ten miles are pretty—granite-framed lakes and rocky buttresses remind me of the high sierra, though the intensity of fall colors is much greater here. We arrive at Mosquito Creek and a campsite at about 6:30. Pushup has already set up his tent, and there are a few flat sites nearby. Roadside and I choose our spots quickly and begin to unpack. My gear is damp, but not soaking wet. I had feared the worst in this all-day rain. There is a pool of water in the bottom of my pack, but a drybag has kept it off of my sleeping bag. While I set up my tent, I drop the stakes and fumble with the cords. Finally I get everything settled and go to join Pushup and Roadside for dinner. We huddle under a fir tree with low, dripping branches. The ground is driest here. It takes me several tries to get a spark from my lighter, but I’m finally able to start the stove. I’m impatient and burn my tongue on the first bites of dinner, but I don’t care. I just need to get the hot food inside me. We barely talk through dinner. Nobody complains about how cold it is. Nobody wishes out loud for a sunny day tomorrow. We finish our dinner, scrape our pots, and wish each other good night before we turn in, Pushup, then Roadside, then me.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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