Going Out in Joy

For you shall go out with joy, and be led out with peace, The mountains and the hills shall break forth into singing before you, And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Isaiah 55:12

My backpack is propped against the legs of the kitchen table, and gear is strewn about on the surface. A bag of freeze dried food is included in the mess. I am happy to have that mess there, to be reminded every time I walk through the kitchen that I am getting ready for a backpacking trip, for it has been almost two years since I ventured forth on an overnight hike on a mountain trail. A combination of life events and injuries has kept me here instead of there.

I am still recovering from a fractured shoulder blade that refuses to heal, but after a winter of “taking it easy” I decided a couple of months ago to get back out there and do the thing I love most. I have been consistently adding mileage each week on my day hikes, and though the pain is always worse by the end of the day, it is tolerable and usually better the following morning. It is very much like being on the trail, and my hiking readers will understand exactly what I mean by this. We have all experienced it, as have runners and other athletes. At the end of a long day of hiking with a heavy pack, mountain passes achieved, we arrive in camp with a collection of aches and pains. You might say that we are in training for those inevitable pains that settle in our joints and backs as we age and slow down.

I had forgotten about the satisfaction of getting ready for a trip. In my younger years, when I took longer trips and carried a heavier pack, this anticipation was especially strong, and I would happily spread things out just as I do today, checking and rechecking, looking forward to the adventures that awaited me. I was not only going backpacking, but I was getting a break from work, which added to the excitement.

The night before my departure I would lift the heavy pack onto my back, sway for a few seconds, then weigh myself and my pack. When I looked at the numbers on the scale, I would sometimes exclaim, “Oh no, I can’t possibly carry that much weight,” and then I would carry the heavy pack to the back of my car. I would have the same experience the next day at the trailhead when I removed my pack. I would start out with trepidation, but within a few minutes the fear had transitioned to something wild.

And here is a strange admission. After a quarter mile or so, the inevitable discomfort from the weight of the pack on my back turned into something wonderful. “I am here on the trail,” the pain would say to me. The discomfort was more than tolerable, it was welcomed, for it told me I was exactly where I wanted to be, doing exactly what I wanted to do, where pain and pleasure blend into the whole of a new adventure. One was not possible without the other.

I do not know what awaits me on the trail next week. I do know that it will be painful at times. I have chosen a short trip, just two nights, and allowing for plenty of time to rest in camp, hold my precious teacup in my hands, and write in my journal or read. That is when the pain turns into “something wonderful.”