Backpacking is the art of knowing what not to take.
Sheridan Anders
The first time I carried my cell phone with me on a backpacking trip was completely unplanned. This trip took place many years ago, before the days of smart phones, and I had my flip phone with me in my truck as I headed for the trailhead at Bears’ Ears on the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming. When I pulled into the parking lot I had an urgent need to empty my bladder so leaped out of my truck and raced to the outhouse. Even an odorous outhouse can bring relief at such times.
After completing my urgent task I ambled across the large parking lot to my truck and placed my hand on the door handle to get my pack out and begin last minute preparations when the terrible reality hit me. In my haste I had locked my keys in the cab. I had in fact locked everything in the cab. All I had with me was a small roll of toilet paper, which had seemed most important when I left my truck. But there it was, and I was stuck in an isolated location, far from help, too far to hitch a ride and without money, credit cards, or any other means of solving this dilemma.
With trepidation I grabbed a boulder and thrust it through the small triangular shaped side window on the passenger side of the cab. The sound of breaking glass assaulted my senses, but after my crime it took only a few seconds to reach my arm through the broken window and open the door.
There it was, everything I needed, now readily accessible after the crisis and with broken glass and a boulder littering the floor on the passenger side. The window repair was not on my mind at that point. I would take care of it when I got home in a week-and-a-half. In the meantime I had to add my valuables to my pack, not wanting to leave them in a truck that would be sitting in a parking lot with a broken window. I covered the front passenger seat with a large garbage bag in case it rained while I was gone, then gathered up the truck registration, my wallet, and that flip phone, placing them all in a Zip-Loc bag and carefully burying them in the bottom of my pack. It seemed silly to be carrying those items with me, things that were completely unnecessary on the trail, but too risky to leave behind in an unsecured vehicle.
I could not have known on that first day that my challenges were just getting started. It turned out to be a very difficult hike, which I described three years ago in Taking the Plunge (March 28, 2021). I nevertheless eventually made my way to a beautiful campsite on Washakie Lake and from there over the pass to complete a loop through the Wind River Mountains. I left a delightful campsite at the lake and made the steep ascent to Washakie Pass, where a small rock wall provided shelter from the wind. I was exhausted from the climb and the elevation and a place to rest out of the wind was exactly what I needed. I leaned against the wall, savoring the view of Chief Mountain and the lake far below, and began rummaging through my pack when I came upon the bag with my valuables. By that time I had almost forgotten the unfortunate incident that forced me to carry those items with me. There had been sufficient challenges on that trip that a locked truck and a broken window no longer seemed to matter much.
But there it was in this wild place, a phone. I do not know what possessed me to turn it on, curiosity I suppose, like some strange new discovery on the trail whose purpose is not apparent. Then to my great surprise, the thing began to vibrate in my hand, and the obnoxious electronic tune began to play. I flipped it open and answered with hello. It was something I knew how to do. It just seemed foreign and strange here on Washakie Pass.
It was a pharmacist calling, requesting a refill authorization for one of my patients. “Uh, I’m on vacation,” I responded, as if that should explain everything. I then advised him to call the clinic, then flipped the phone closed and turned the thing off. It felt like an imposition, this brief interruption of my solitude and peace on a wilderness trail, an electronic device that ruled my goings and comings back there in that other world but one I was happy to leave behind on my backpacking trips. These long treks once every summer were the only chance I ever had to be away from its tether. These were days I cherished. I had not expected to have a signal when I turned the phone on, but at that elevation there were no obstacles. The phone with its demands seemed to follow me wherever I traveled.
Many years later, long since retired and no longer receiving calls from pharmacists, I am sadly more tethered to my phone than I was in my working years. I am 360 miles away from my nearest family, and visiting them requires crossing two mountain passes, so those trips do not occur as often as I would like, and I always appreciate the frequent phone calls and texts I receive from them. A few years ago I reluctantly agreed to carry my phone on the trail with me so that I can call for assistance should that ever become necessary. Then there are the helpful navigation tools, the maps, a compass, an entire library of my favorite books, and of course a camera.
Like every good thing it comes with a price, most notably that it distracts me from the wilderness world around me. I keep it in a pocket that requires releasing a Velcro flap whenever I want to access it. It is a small and uncomplicated task, but it keeps me from allowing the phone to become an unnecessary interruption.
What I miss the most about carrying a cell phone is the way in which it takes me away from the edges of things, that wild place in the wilderness where I must rely exclusively on my own wits. That is why I have always hiked alone, though I did not know this in my early twenties when I first began the practice. There is a thrill that comes from knowing that I am alone on a mountain trail, that whatever happens is a problem for me alone to solve. When I have been tossed around in the current of the river but manage to emerge safely on the other side, I know this about myself. I am safe and strong. I can do this.
The Solitude Trail 