Backcountry Monsoon

I loved camping as a kid, and on my 18th birthday my parents bought me a bunch of camping gear, just as I had asked. A canteen, a thermal blanket, flint, survival saw, lantern, flashlight, snake bite kit, a stove, and a kettle. I had this idea that I should try it again as an adult. Figured I’d like it. The only thing they didn't get me was a tent.

Not knowing what type of tent to get I ended up buying a used, giant, 10x12x8’ tent with heavy-canvas on the bottom and top, and ½” steel poles as the frame at a garage sale. Maybe it was 30 bucks, and about 60lbs. I spent roughly 7 years casually camping in it, mostly alone because camping wasn't hip back then, and most of my friends were artists and musicians who didn't enjoy the thought of waking up on the ground. Plus, I’ve always been a bit of a loner and sometimes having others around made me feel like I couldn’t do all that I wanted to, or go as far as I wanted to. If it was just me, everything was a little easier.

Having gained experiential knowledge as a weekend warrior camper and having read some wilderness survival books I decided to try my hand at backcountry camping.

My first backcountry trip: Big Bend. I lugged my backpack and my 60lb tent along with me. When you go backcountry hiking alone in cougar and bear country you have to get a permit. They snap a picture of you and make note of what you're wearing. They ask when you'll be back and then assign you a permit. I think one of the rangers snickered at my giant ass tent, too.

I parked my car at an off-road trailhead, grabbed my things and locked it. For the next week I was going to hike and camp at least 50 miles from any other human being. I had 3lbs of almonds, and maybe a couple pounds of dried cherries, and just a couple gallons of water, cause, well, that tent was heavy.

I hiked all day carrying everything and set up the camp by water ‘cause I knew I’d need some. I foraged for prickly pear fruit and nopales, which were abundant. I also ate mesquite pod seeds and juniper berries. After two nights I packed up and hiked further in. Mountains surrounded me and it looked like a storm was coming. I decided to set the tent up farther away from water than my first site. I had no idea what a storm in Big Bend looked like.

That night it rained. Rather, it monsoon-ed. The sound of it was like a constant thunder on the roof of my tent. In fact it was difficult to distinguish between the sound of the two. It wasn’t just the sound of the rain though. The wind was a machine gun. It battered my tent. There were a few times I thought it would fall. Water began leaking into the tent in a few places. It would sort of bead in and then roll along the inside slope of the tent before falling down the side. It took me an incredibly long time to fall asleep with the sounds.

Finally, when the thunder calmed some, I fell asleep. About 4 hours later I awoke in about 5 inches of water. I quickly pulled out my knife and, with some hesitation, slashed a 20" hole in my tent on the side with the deepest water. The water flowed out, and a piece of me felt like I had killed a close friend.

I spent the rest of the night wondering what I was doing there. I felt sad, stuck. I couldn't sleep. I was wet and cold. All of my clothes were wet. My sleeping bag was wet. My almonds were soaked. I felt sort of fooled. Nature had played a joke on me and my romance of the wild.

Over the next couple hours the sound of the rain changed into the sound of a river flowing quickly. I tried to read to pass the time, but my G.K Chesterton book was wet and sort of tearing as I tried. The heat from my lantern was about the only comforting thing around me. It seemed to dispel some of the dampness and keep the chills away.

When the sunlight finally lit up the inside of my tent and I could really see the damage, I started cussing out loud at it all. Though I already felt cold and the outside air would likely make me feel colder, I decided I couldn't stay in the tent any longer. I pulled the zipper, felt the brisk air flow in and onto me, and I stepped out.

All around, on each and every mountain top surrounding me, were waterfalls crashing down hundreds of feet. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I cried. I asked myself to forgive myself for not having appreciated the storm.

I sat there for hours. I thought about my poor tent and looked at my prune-fingers.

I decided that if I was going to be here, I'd have to accept nature as she is, not as the ideal I had for her.

And I thought about the ways I had not appreciated the people and the things in my life for who and what they were. I repented.

My 18th birthday was 20 years ago today. What a wild ride it has been. All of it.