Moving On

Whenever you leave a place and come back to it, the place has changed—and so have you.

Philip Gerard

Whenever I move I think a lot about my backpacking adventures. Even in the days when I carried as much as sixty-five pounds, that heavy pack was nevertheless a reminder of how simple life can be, perhaps how simple life should be. I carried everything I needed to survive in the wilderness on my back. Even hoisting the weight of that pack at the start of a trip seemed like something miraculous. In that pack I carried shelter, a sleeping bag, a comfortable sleeping pad, food for as long as two weeks, warm clothes, a book to read, a field guide, and my journal.

I am reminded therefore of how simple life can be. I used to pitch my tent as soon as I arrived in camp, blow up my sleeping pad, lay out my sleeping bag, and then find a nice rock or log where I placed my stove, preparing myself a cup of tea. That was it. That was the moving job I performed everyday on the trail. There was nothing left to do but to sip my cup of tea out of the green plastic cup and to pick up my journal.

Over the years of course that heavy pack had to get smaller. Technology largely made that possible. The development of ultra-lite packs made it possible to start with less weight even before I put anything into it. Stoves became lighter and easier to use. E-books made it possible to carry every single one of Shakespeare’s sonnets if I chose and a whole collection of field guides.

This move has been difficult for me, for I love my beautiful home in the northeastern corner of Washington state. Most of the time I put it out of my mind. Then I get up in the morning, walk out into the living room to build the fire in the wood stove, and there are the boxes, stacked high, impossible to ignore.

Why then would I want to move away from here? The answer is the same as the very good case for ultra-lite hiking. I am seeking small and simple. My new home is about half the size of my country cottage in northeastern Washington. I will be able to walk to the natural foods co-op, the yoga studio, beautiful waterfront parks, great restaurants, a fish market, even an elegant movie theater with a venue of overstuffed chairs, candlelight, and a wine list. Then there is the fact that it will only be about a thirty minute drive from trailheads in the Olympics, and many of the low elevation river valleys remain free of snow year round.

Perhaps the hardest part about leaving here is saying good-bye to my many friends, but that good-bye will not be a permanent one. I plan to keep this beautiful home that I love and return in the spring. For me that is the best part about a simpler life, leaving behind the very cold winters and often treacherous driving conditions. Many of my friends make that move every fall and spring. We call them snow birds, since most of them head south to California or Arizona.

Instead I will become a kind of rain bird, moving to the gray side of the Cascade Mountains, where rain and drizzle are common. I grew up in western Washington. I know what it is like. In many ways I feel like I am returning home on that ferry you see in the photo. I believe that ultimately we must return home if we are to find peace in our aging years, though home can be defined in many different ways. For me it is the familiar landscape of mountain peaks on the horizon, the vista of water stretching out before me, and the ferry carrying me across the sound to a simpler life.