Although my brother Clark is very gracious about inviting me
along with his California Boy Scouts when they go on backpacking trips, I’m not
sure the boys always thought I was cool enough for them. A middle-aged woman named Victoria was joining them? Who next?
Shirley Temple? If she could
come, it obviously was not going to be a trip for he-men. I admit I cannot carry an 80 lb. pack. I’m used to cooking over fires and not camp
stoves like the Californians, so am not very adept at them. I went with them up Mt. Whitney, led them on
a canoe trip to Lake Ozette and out to the coast, and backpacked with them around
the Wonderland Trail (or would that be Trial?).
But our trip to Philmont Scout Ranch was
not only laden with heavy packs, it was weighed down by strife. Talk about hiking
off on the wrong foot! The months of
planning, evaluating equipment, and getting in shape, did nothing to prepare me
for snarky attitudes of some boys that I had known for several years and
backpacked with before. I was flummoxed
at their posturing. What happened? When did that sweet 14 year-old turn into an
aggressive college freshman?
I loved Philmont though.
It was a dream come true. All my
growing up years, I read about it as the ultimate goal in my brother Clark’s Boy’s Life magazine. As a child, I donned my dad’s canvas Duluth
pack and “hiked” to the park, dreaming I was in Boy Scouts with my brother. I did sit ups in front of my dad so he would
take me on a canoe trip. I studied the
Boy Scout handbook from cover to cover.
I could not believe it when Clark called and said they had
an extra space on their Philmont Trek and could I join? It was going to be a 62 mile circuit, and the
goal each day would be to get to each campsite early enough so that the Scouts
could do the activities there, whether tying flies, rappelling, shooting black
powder guns, archery, or horseback riding and branding our boots. So fast hiking was imperative.
Philmont Ranch is located in New Mexico, and my vision of
New Mexico is desert. Philmont’s located
in the mountains of the northern part of the state, though, and is pine and
alder forest in the mountains. Thinking
it was desert, I was worried about the sun, being a victim of the rays of
Helios and a regular visitor to the dermatologist. Backpacker’s magazine
suggested taking, of all things, an umbrella.
Turned out that was a bad idea.
There wasn’t that much sun, as the trees shaded us. If I tried to use it as an actual rain shield,
it was dangerous, as there were thunder and lightning storms and it would have
acted as a lightning rod. Thirdly, it did nothing to endear me to the boys, who
thought it was the epitome of laughable decadence. Since there were a lot of bears at Philmont,
I made up my mind to use it as a bear-frightening device. Open an umbrella near a horse and the rider
is liable to end up in the next county, so I figured it would work on bears. Turns out the most aggressive animals we saw
were teenaged boys.
My pack weighed 30 lbs. when I left home, but when water,
group food, and a tent were added, it was up to 55lbs. That’s a lot of weight for a 128 lb.
person. No matter, I’ve got knees like a
draft horse and was sure I could do it.
Getting the thing on my back proved to be problematic however. Even though I could carry it up hill and down
dale, I could not lift it and get it slung around onto my back. If I leaned it up against a rock, got the
straps on, then tried to stand, I could not get up. The thing that worked best was to either have
my brother hold it up while I got the straps on, of it he wasn’t available, to
find a tall rock or a steep hillside to put it up on, the weasel into the
straps.
When the group stopped for a potty break, they all peed
standing up. I didn’t work that way. I had to take it off to squat or I’d not be
able to get back up. Options? One, don’t
ever pee. Two, take it off and find a
helper or a tall rock to get it back on.
Three, buy an adapter. Seriously,
who knew they made such things? They are
tricky to use, and you have to lean a certain way or get drenched, but I found
it to be the answer.
The boys were quite content to stuff all things in their
pack in random disorder, never brush their teeth, wash, and certainly never
change their clothes. I, being slightly
more of a neatnik, liked brushing my teeth.
They groused about the time the adults were taking in the morning to get
ready. Even my brother was not immune to
their griping. Solution? We got up an hour before them to tend to
ablutions.
It eventually became clear to them that I could indeed keep
up their pace, but my brother and his wife did not. This worked in Clark’s favor at one
point. All the fast hikers went blowing
past a turnoff, and Clark, the human GPS, bellowed “STOP!” in his Russian bass
voice. He urged us to come back and
reconsider our direction, and when we did, we were surprised to find the trail. No one but Clark had found it all summer, I’m
led to believe, as it looked like it had only been used by rabbits. All the other troops said they missed it. But the boys still did not stop their denigrating
comments about the adults, in spite of the fact one of them had just saved them
an afternoon of bushwhacking. Telling
them to cease their reproaches did not work.
They did not listen to us.
I should have had the good sense not to get peeved by
adolescents. But when they kept
complaining about the adults’ dwaddling, I went and hefted the pack of the
ringleader. It was lighter than
mine. When I called him on it, he cited
my decadent umbrella. I admit I should
have not brought that, but told him if he wanted to grouse about slow adults,
he could carry more weight. The boys did
not want to slow down as they wanted to get to the camps early and it said it
was hard to walk slowly. The adults said
it was a Philmont rule that we were all supposed to stay together.
The tension and animosity was thick. I apologized to the ringleader whose pack I
had weighed, so did he, but it was as if our ears were plugged. Finally, Clark’s wife broke down, and told
her sons how rude and immature they were being.
Considering all the work and planning the adults had put in to the trip,
they could jolly well keep their criticism to themselves. Her sons came and hugged their mother, but I
was still fair game, and anything to ridicule was looked upon as a merit badge
to these tough-men wannabes.
The ringleader’s dad B--- was with us on this trip. We had been on several treks before, and I
liked the guy. He was carrying an
immense pack, maybe 65lbs? I can’t understand how he did it. So one morning after a great rain, glorying
in the wildflowers, fresh air, and scent of the pines, we came upon a boardwalk
over a meadow. The boys were first, then
B---, then me. Suddenly a board broke,
B---‘s leg slipped in the hole, and he fell off the boardwalk. His pack was down, his face was up, and his
lower leg was trapped in the broken boardwalk.
It looked as if his shin was about to break.
I was agog at this, not knowing how I could possibly get him
out. All I could think of was to try to
drop my pack and get his off somehow.
But he yelled, “Lift me up, my leg bone is breaking!”
With my pack on, I leaned way out, grabbed him by the chest
strap, and with one hand, lifted him up on his feet. We stood there in disbelief. Being a woman of faith, don’t tell me I did
that because of adrenaline. Don’t tell
me I had some leverage or favorable physics.
That night at our group gathering, I expressed thanks to our
heavenly Father for His timely aid. The boys
mimicked me and sniggered. But I like to
think that the same heavenly Father, who can aid a woman lifting a full grown
man with a 65lb. pack with one arm, can also lift a woman in the estimation of
her hiking buddies.
By the end of the hike, we were zooming along together at
warp speed, and little was said about pokey old adults. I saw the ringleader again a few years later,
and he was polite, nodding and smiling to me in greeting. I’m sure he is a charming young man. He went back several times to Philmont, and I
hope he has many happy memories of that place.
I’m glad his dad did not have to be airlifted out with a broken
leg.
And I’m especially happy to see the handiwork of the great
God, who is Love. Whether the great
mountains and beautiful scenery of Philmont, or the quiet comraderie of those
who walk its trails.
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