Early Morning

by Steve Ovadia

Early Morning, I am awakened from a restful sleep as a crow makes his
first statement for the day in a nearby tree. I sit still in the cold
dark in my sleeping bag, listening to the other early risers of the deep
woods coming to life as I stare at the light coating of icy frost lining
the ceiling of my bivy. This is the third day on my five-day solo trek,
and each day it gets colder. Opening the zipper on the bivy, I spot a
glimpse of light on the far horizon, dark blue and black everywhere
else. I close the zipper and drift back to sleep.

Once again I am awakened, except this time by the light of day. My
adrenaline pumps at the sight of day, and I rise from my bag to be
greeted by the smell of cool, sweet mountain air and ashen wood from
last night's fire. It is another sunny day, and my muscles ache as I
crouch down to build a fire for coffee. With the fire snapping,
crackling, and going pop I take a short walk to relieve myself in a
nearby bush. Now that feels good. On the way back, I spot a deer on a
hill moments before he spots me. "How can anyone shoot you?", I say
softly to myself as I reach into my fanny pack for my disposable camera.
He notices me, and runs leisurely up and over the hill. I snap a
picture of the empty woods. "Another great picture!", I add.

I boil some water, and mix my coffee ingredients like an unshowered
scientist in the woods. Over coffee and a Nutri-grain bar, I plan my
days hike in an effort to avoid the pain of packing up my belongings
again and putting them on my back. Today's hike takes me mostly
downhill, past a large stream and then across a highway. Once past the
highway, I will travel steeply up a 500-foot cliff and then meander over
and through small hills and valleys until I reach my next shelter. It
is simple enough, but I go over the details many times. Take the map
out, estimate the miles, put it away. Take it out again and count the
contour lines, put it away again; over and over. It is all so
important, and enjoyable. But the time to go has come.

Packing at home is about as fun as packing can get. But when you spend
two days in the woods and have literally moved every item you own to a
new location within your backpack, you are bound to become frustrated.
Where is my damned toothbrush? I know I packed about 200 matches and a
lighter, yet all I see is flint! That is no fun. But, as with
everything in life, you have to take the bad with the good. Now I
travel speedily down a long, windy, downhill trail with the smell of
dewy green leaves all around me. The birds are singing with confidence,
and not just that repetitious song that the crows sing. The sun has
gotten much stronger, so I stop to take my jacket off and tie it around
the back of my pack. Feels like a great time for a drink of water.
"Ah..." , ice cold just like I like it.

Before long I reach the stream and refill my water bottles. "Do you
think there is a graceful way to use this water filter?", I think to
myself as the tubes twist and turn, and the intake filter floats to its
side. And what about when you pack it away. Isn't it possible for the
'dirty' water to drip onto the 'clean' water tube and contaminate the
filter with loads of Giardia for the next time? Too many questions for
a beautiful morning like this. I hit the trail and reach the highway.

What a feeling! Cars zipping by, with people in a mad dash to get to
where they need to be. And here I am, perfectly still, where I need to
be. They look at me as they drive by. I imagine they wonder, "Where is
he coming from?" or "Do you think he is wanted somewhere?". It amuses
me as I wait for a break in traffic to cross. It has always given me a
strange feeling in my stomach when I drive by a backpacker, even before
I was into the sport. I always get the feeling that I am in the wrong
place. That I am missing something so monumentally important by not
being out on the trail that I can literally vomit. As the backpacker, I
feel proud.

But now I have crossed the highway and I begin climbing steep rocks.
Negotiating each step as I focus from ledge to ledge. I reach a point
where looking around my arm I can see those same cars zipping by like
matchbox cars on a plastic track below me. And the wind has picked up
as well.

I am standing on a small rock ledge several hundred feet in the air, and
have no choice but to hoist my body to the next small ledge above me.
Halfway through the process, my arms give way and my pack slips to the
side landing on a wider ledge above me and to the right. The motion of
the pack pulls my left leg clear off the ledge below and my left hand is
barely able to keep me balanced. Unable to turn to see below me, I have
no option to move back down. In addition, I would need to pull my pack
off the ledge to lower my body and that could throw me straight off the
mountain. My right hand, with my arm twisted awkwardly, now starts
sliding off of the higher ledge. A feeling of heat rises within my body
as I recall the countless reasons why you shouldn't hike alone, and find
this situation neatly filed away under "C" for concussion. Unwilling to
die, I manage to remove my sternum strap and pull my left arm free of
the backpack. It lands square on the small ledge that it was so
determined to sit on. With the weight off my back, I am able to pull my
body to the next ledge... where I will sit for a half-hour.

And so my hike continues through the meandering mountains, and the
shelter I reach safely. To my pleasant surprise, I find a trail
register where I jot down this story in my sloppy handwriting. A new
fire is lit and Beef Chili is on the menu. The lights fade and the
crickets awaken. It is early morning for them. They wake from their
restful sleep as I make my last statement of the day... "Good night."

About the Author

Steve Ovadia (steve.ovadia@technologist.com) lives in Rockland County, NY and works as a programmer/analyst for an investment firm in New York City