How do You Pack for 5 Months of Hiking?

I’m not sure. It’s hard to imagine being gone for so long.

I roll my shirts and stack them inside a box. I place the box inside a room in my house where life will go on while I’m gone. Next week when we leave, our two dogs will inherit new roommates. They’ll watch them cook, they’ll share their toys and they’ll barbecue outside in the warm summer sunshine. Life will go on.

I’m realizing the challenge of packing for 5 months is less about what you will bring, and more about what you will leave behind.

I notice my black chiweenie stretching out in front of the rectangular wall heater, maximizing his surface area to soak up more heat. I want to roll my heart into a t-shirt and lay it beside his head.

Outside, the Washington’s winter clouds are beginning to crack, and spring is shining through. Green buds appear at the tips of branches outside our bedroom window and soon the scent of honeysuckle will greet you on the porch.

I imagine that a month from now, my little friend will be stretched out in the yard, with a sunbeam on his side. His tongue will hang from his mouth, bending his face into a smile. I imagine the feel of his fur, warm to the touch as he retreats back into the shade.

I’m sad I’ll miss what I imagine is his favorite time of year.

Letting Go

Letting go is the hardest thing we do in life. And, a 5 month hike demands you to let go. I’m struggling with that right now.

Two weeks from now, as we walk into the woods, we will be letting go of our life right here. We will be letting go of control. We will be letting go of comforts. We’re already doing this now, as we parse out what will stay and what will go.

There are the simple things.

“Will we need this survival book, I never knew we had? Although it may be relevant, it’s definitely far too heavy.”

And there are the difficult things.

Many friends and family I’ve barely seen within a year, or haven’t seen at all. Since Covid came, life shifted, and twisted upside down. And now with the expansion of vaccinations there’s hope for the summer. There’s potential for paddle boarding with a best friend, outdoor barbecues and bonfires. Visiting with my grandma. Could there be a return to normal? The word holds little meaning after the fog of this past year. But there’s hope for potential.

Weight vs Value

When you pack for a backpacking trip, you have to consider the weight to value ratio of each and every item. Extra weight requires more work, energy, and calories to carry. So, you have to ask yourself “Does this item provide a value that’s equivalent or greater than its weight?”

This math is easy with things like a knit wool hat that weighs 3 oz, or a sleeping bag. It’s easy with books that weigh 2 lbs. The math get’s difficult when you arrive to the trivial items that can provide potential comfort; “Should I bring my flip-flops so I can free my feet at camp?”

This ethos applies to packing my backpack, but now I see it leaking into my life as I clean our home for someone else. I let go of things I do not need as I think to myself “I don’t want to be held up tomorrow, by the person I was yesterday.” I want to make room for myself tomorrow. I stack up a pile of clothes that haven’t been worn since the 90s. I bag up items from my youth, unjostling memories of friends and forgotten moments.

The temptation is to hold onto these items, as tiny gateways to memories – to stuff them in a closet, pack them into bag, carry them around forever. But I already have what I need. This stuff holds no magic. The memories are in my mind, and I’ve found magic lives in movement. Moving forward, making choices, and letting go. I don’t want to be held in my past. I want to make room for myself tomorrow.

With backpacking, few things provide enough value to justify making the cut.

As we pack items into boxes, my mind grows weary of estimating ratios. Music plays from a Pandora play list and Radical Face sings “there’s no going home“.

This act of packing feels like prying tiles glued to the floor. We are separating from our comforts, but it feels good to be alive. It feels good to know that tomorrow won’t be the same. And as we separate our things, I notice an appreciation that’s not there every day.

We have a beautiful life I think as we pack away our pictures, and keepsakes, and our dog friends watch with curiosity. That’s what makes this hard. And that’s a good thing. It feels good to feel thankful for what we have.

Life is impermanent. And fragile. And short. As I approach 40, I realize this, which I didn’t at 20, or 30. So many memories seem like yesterday, yet years ago the same. I want to stop and swim in them. But I must keep moving forward. I tell myself life is made to be moved through. To act. To move. This is the place where memories are made.

We cannot stop and refuse to move forward. We cannot pretend or will time to repeat itself. Time does not comply. But, we can create beautiful moments, to be shared with those we love.

The amount of room in my backpack is minimal. I cannot fit my entire life. There are pieces that give me pain to leave, but it’s not a single object. It’s friends, family, and what may be that sits on my heart.

But to refuse to move, is to refuse to live. Movement is where the magic happens. It’s where memories are made. Even when it rains.