Running With The
Wolves: A 5-year-olds First Backpacking Trip
by Ben Tiffany
My first backpacking trip began
on the night of my fifth
birthday. Having just been told that I should not and could not grow up
to be a
writer, I decided to leave my family behind. And in doing so, I became
the
youngest runaway in Hunterdon
County
history.
“You’ll become an alcoholic,” my
mother had said. “You’ll
drive an ambulance. You’ll hang around bullfights. And someday you’ll
shoot
yourself.”
I admit that it looked grim, but
writing was all I was good
at. Having grown up on a farm, I could already see that I wasn’t much
good at
digging ditches. I didn’t have the discipline to stay within the lines
in my
coloring books. I couldn’t even tie my shoelaces with any real
consistency. It
was clear that I’d have to settle for a career in freelance writing.
So I packed my belongings and
hit the road. I shouldered the
essentials: a pressed shirt, a sack of nickels, a small shovel and, of
course,
a fat spiral notebook. I needed the shovel to dig for gold in case my
nickels
ran out. The pressed shirt was for job interviews.
I knew I’d find berries for
food. And I figured I’d pick up
a sidearm somewhere along the way. That way, I could hunt for ducks,
cows or
even mule deer if the opportunity should present itself.
Unfortunately my trip didn’t
last very long. The cops picked
me up about five weeks later, living with a pack of wolves. We had
cornered a
12-point buck in some farmer’s orchard when Johnny Law comes busting
out of the
woods in full riot gear, waving his piece and shouting something about
me and
the boys being poachers. My buddies (a cowardly pack) high-tailed it
for the
den. But I knew I was too slow to get far. I tried my hand at diplomacy
instead:
“Settle down, pig.” I said. “A
cub’s gotta eat, doesn’t he?”
Well that line (and a list of
others) went over about as
well as can be expected. He had me in shackles faster than you can say
“oink”. But
I realized that the buck was out of season. And I loosened my grip on
the cop’s
throat.
<>The cops hosed me down, confiscated my sidearm, my
fake I.D.
and even my half-full notebook of scribblings; said my writing was
“disturbing
for a five-year-old” and shipped it off to Washington.
I figured I’d have to pawn the shovel in order to afford a lawyer worth
his salt.
But my father showed up and somehow got me released.
<>Although my first backpacking trip was cut short, I
developed
a taste for the lifestyle. I loved the freedom of carrying all of my
belongings
on my back. As I grew older, I took more trips. And now I take at least
two
extended trips each year.
There is something magical about standing in a grassy meadow
or atop a jagged peak when you know that no plane, car, truck, or bike
could
have gotten you there, when the only way was to commit yourself to
three or
four days of hiking. The isolation of these places creates an aura of
purity,
of mystery. The solitude is comforting. But the isolation is
intoxicating.
In this part of the world,
August and September are great
months to hit the backcountry. The Wind River Range
of Wyoming
and the Sawtooth Mountains
of Idaho are perfectly
ripe. The Uinta
and La Sal mountains of Utah
are
still bursting with new growth. And by September, Utahns can head back
to the
desert, which has finally begun to cool off.
If nothing else, I hope this issue
helps bring backpacking into the forefront of your mind. Amber will
tell you how
to get into the goods at Yellowstone, where
only 10
percent of the park is actually used. She’ll guide you through the
other 90 percent
that the public is too lazy to ruin. We’ve got a lightweight hiking
boot
review. And I managed to throw together an article about the follies of
my backpacking
trip down Dark Canyon.
It starts off slow, but it ends with a car chase and a gunfight. Plenty
of
action. I promise.
...more Ben Tiffany articles here
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