In the Know—Mastering and Mentoring
by Kathleen Meyer
June 2013
June 2013
[In appreciation of Philip Werner (SectionHiker) for the first posting of this piece; see my blog Archive “Spring Has Sprung.” In my switching now to new software, I’ve taken this out of it’s photo presentation. Surely five years later the rights return!]
Spring is full on—even here in the Rockies, snow melting, wildflowers popping, bees buzzing—a gorgeous season to venture into the outback. which means . . . hmmm . . . it’s also time to brush up on wilderness toilet skills. Maybe even engineer your first-ever backcountry squat?
Let me begin by addressing the budding trekker, which the rest of us once were and can easily slip right back to, if not in a literal physical sense, surely in vivid memory. This is a good thing! (As you’ll see.) So, here you are a wild-country novice, having enjoyed day hikes and now plunging into an overnighter. Unlike Bill Bryson’s school chum Katz in A Walk in the Woods, you’ve gotten in shape. (Of course.) And now propped by the front door is your borrowed or brand new backpack, bulging and ready. Any minute a friend who’s been cajoling you into this adventure—“I promise, you’ll love it!”—or badgering you—“Come on, don’t be a wimp!”—is scheduled to arrive. Indeed, you’ve spent the winter conjuring up that gentle switchbacking mountain trail, that tranquil riverside camp, that towering red rock canyon, that night sky brilliant with stars. And yet, the larger picture, the one you can’t quite wrap your mind around because it dominates the whole frontal screen of your imagination—a non-vision really, more a freight train of panic—is that ol’ scrunching down in the bushes with your pants around your ankles. Disasters plague your thoughts. My balance is lousy. I could get stuck in this position. Deep-knee bends aren’t my forté. I could topple over, land in it. And the branch? The one they say to grab to steady yourself—what if it snaps? I could get gucky, get bitten, get stickery. Get SEEN.
Yeow! The dreary particulars look endless.
But, in fact, nowadays, with a little preparation and equipment and the support of a a kindly coach, all can be overcome. The learning curve is no longer the hush-hush, trail-and-error ordeal it was when I began. Roaming everywhere are empathetic experts. Plus, there’s this guidebook . . .
Let me begin by addressing the budding trekker, which the rest of us once were and can easily slip right back to, if not in a literal physical sense, surely in vivid memory. This is a good thing! (As you’ll see.) So, here you are a wild-country novice, having enjoyed day hikes and now plunging into an overnighter. Unlike Bill Bryson’s school chum Katz in A Walk in the Woods, you’ve gotten in shape. (Of course.) And now propped by the front door is your borrowed or brand new backpack, bulging and ready. Any minute a friend who’s been cajoling you into this adventure—“I promise, you’ll love it!”—or badgering you—“Come on, don’t be a wimp!”—is scheduled to arrive. Indeed, you’ve spent the winter conjuring up that gentle switchbacking mountain trail, that tranquil riverside camp, that towering red rock canyon, that night sky brilliant with stars. And yet, the larger picture, the one you can’t quite wrap your mind around because it dominates the whole frontal screen of your imagination—a non-vision really, more a freight train of panic—is that ol’ scrunching down in the bushes with your pants around your ankles. Disasters plague your thoughts. My balance is lousy. I could get stuck in this position. Deep-knee bends aren’t my forté. I could topple over, land in it. And the branch? The one they say to grab to steady yourself—what if it snaps? I could get gucky, get bitten, get stickery. Get SEEN.
Yeow! The dreary particulars look endless.
But, in fact, nowadays, with a little preparation and equipment and the support of a a kindly coach, all can be overcome. The learning curve is no longer the hush-hush, trail-and-error ordeal it was when I began. Roaming everywhere are empathetic experts. Plus, there’s this guidebook . . .
Hole up on your comfortable, porcelain one-holer and read it. I’ll supply you right here with your first two hints—beyond the basics—for a superior, even revelatory, experience. Start by stepping off the trail and wandering far enough from the flow of other hikers that you won’t be interrupted, won’t be tripped over. But no so far that you’ll get lost. Locate an inviting view, be it a panoramic vista or close-in paradise. I’ve come to the point where almost anything will suffice: spiny devil’s club or monotonous talus are fascinating when quietly studied.
Once you’re in position, the spiritual is close at hand. Nobody is planted behind your locked bathroom door, reading War and Peace. Nobody is beating on said door, “Hurry it up!” Rather, it’s peaceful. Enchantment is on the way. Mountaintops on the horizon suddenly come into focus. A bird warbles. A flower smiles. Allow your weary soul to absorb this calmest away from the modern-day frenzy. Heave a sigh. Feel the sun and breeze tickling your bum. Meditate. It’s your spirit you want soaring—you’ve come for the view, the serenity, the communion with magnificence.
Now I want the ear of all the old hands (notice I didn’t say old-timers)—you, with the mastery and the finesse—I’m enlisting you to offer guidance and assistance to the novitiates; I just assured then the woods are full of our friendly gang. But first, a bit of encouragement for those of us taking up the mantle of “saviors to souls in otherwise dire-shitty-straights.” A story imparted by a friend and neighbor over a couple pints of Guinness at our local Scottish pub. The recalled episode issued forth from adventure guide extraordinaire Skip Horner, who has been leading creative, remote, and extreme adventures for decades. Were he not at this moment gliding over ice-cream snow in some place like Antarctica, I’d be sure of my details. Yet, I’m compelled to share the story here, if only from hazy memory, because Skip’s generosity and humanity brims with the inspiration we need.
Once you’re in position, the spiritual is close at hand. Nobody is planted behind your locked bathroom door, reading War and Peace. Nobody is beating on said door, “Hurry it up!” Rather, it’s peaceful. Enchantment is on the way. Mountaintops on the horizon suddenly come into focus. A bird warbles. A flower smiles. Allow your weary soul to absorb this calmest away from the modern-day frenzy. Heave a sigh. Feel the sun and breeze tickling your bum. Meditate. It’s your spirit you want soaring—you’ve come for the view, the serenity, the communion with magnificence.
Now I want the ear of all the old hands (notice I didn’t say old-timers)—you, with the mastery and the finesse—I’m enlisting you to offer guidance and assistance to the novitiates; I just assured then the woods are full of our friendly gang. But first, a bit of encouragement for those of us taking up the mantle of “saviors to souls in otherwise dire-shitty-straights.” A story imparted by a friend and neighbor over a couple pints of Guinness at our local Scottish pub. The recalled episode issued forth from adventure guide extraordinaire Skip Horner, who has been leading creative, remote, and extreme adventures for decades. Were he not at this moment gliding over ice-cream snow in some place like Antarctica, I’d be sure of my details. Yet, I’m compelled to share the story here, if only from hazy memory, because Skip’s generosity and humanity brims with the inspiration we need.
One year, two mountaineering teams from different countries were making an ascent on a high, hairy, majestic peak somewhere in the Eastern Hemisphere. They were camped at an elevation that’s riddled with ice crevasses, when a man on the other country’s team landed at the bottom of one of these yawning chasms, inside the sloshing contents of the communal potty, a rudimentary affair that had—until that second—been straddling the gap. His countrymen rudely turned up their noses at the stinky idea of hauling him out. It was Sir Skip Galahad who tossed him the end of a lovely, clean climbing rope, and, in so doing, bolstered international relations beyond any hopes and dreams of a head-of-state!
OK mentors, here we go. You know the ropes of where and how to dig, when it’s best to pack-it-out. You’re painfully acquainted with how fast embarrassment descends. And fully aware of the importance of personal comfort, proper sanitation, and respecting Mother Earth. Super-schooled you are, in-the-know, and poised to guide. Now take a minute and scroll back over your outdoor life and supply us all with a teaser: Where’s the grandest place you’ve ever crapped?
One of mine was near here, with that 70-mile sweep of the
Bitterroot Range just beyond my toes!
Please bare with; I’m in the process of transferring the Archives and Comments to this new site, and finishing mobile compatibility.
In the Know—Mastering and Mentoring
by Kathleen Meyer
June 2013
June 2013
[In appreciation of Philip Werner (SectionHiker) for the first posting of this piece; see my blog Archive “Spring Has Sprung.” In my switching now to new software, I’ve taken this out of it’s photo presentation. Surely five years later the rights return!]
Spring is full on—even here in the Rockies, snow melting, wildflowers popping, bees buzzing—a gorgeous season to venture into the outback. which means . . . hmmm . . . it’s also time to brush up on wilderness toilet skills. Maybe even engineer your first-ever backcountry squat?
Let me begin by addressing the budding trekker, which the rest of us once were and can easily slip right back to, if not in a literal physical sense, surely in vivid memory. This is a good thing! (As you’ll see.) So, here you are a wild-country novice, having enjoyed day hikes and now plunging into an overnighter. Unlike Bill Bryson’s school chum Katz in A Walk in the Woods, you’ve gotten in shape. (Of course.) And now propped by the front door is your borrowed or brand new backpack, bulging and ready. Any minute a friend who’s been cajoling you into this adventure—“I promise, you’ll love it!”—or badgering you—“Come on, don’t be a wimp!”—is scheduled to arrive. Indeed, you’ve spent the winter conjuring up that gentle switchbacking mountain trail, that tranquil riverside camp, that towering red rock canyon, that night sky brilliant with stars. And yet, the larger picture, the one you can’t quite wrap your mind around because it dominates the whole frontal screen of your imagination—a non-vision really, more a freight train of panic—is that ol’ scrunching down in the bushes with your pants around your ankles. Disasters plague your thoughts. My balance is lousy. I could get stuck in this position. Deep-knee bends aren’t my forté. I could topple over, land in it. And the branch? The one they say to grab to steady yourself—what if it snaps? I could get gucky, get bitten, get stickery. Get SEEN.
Yeow! The dreary particulars look endless.
But, in fact, nowadays, with a little preparation and equipment and the support of a a kindly coach, all can be overcome. The learning curve is no longer the hush-hush, trail-and-error ordeal it was when I began. Roaming everywhere are empathetic experts. Plus, there’s this guidebook . . .
Let me begin by addressing the budding trekker, which the rest of us once were and can easily slip right back to, if not in a literal physical sense, surely in vivid memory. This is a good thing! (As you’ll see.) So, here you are a wild-country novice, having enjoyed day hikes and now plunging into an overnighter. Unlike Bill Bryson’s school chum Katz in A Walk in the Woods, you’ve gotten in shape. (Of course.) And now propped by the front door is your borrowed or brand new backpack, bulging and ready. Any minute a friend who’s been cajoling you into this adventure—“I promise, you’ll love it!”—or badgering you—“Come on, don’t be a wimp!”—is scheduled to arrive. Indeed, you’ve spent the winter conjuring up that gentle switchbacking mountain trail, that tranquil riverside camp, that towering red rock canyon, that night sky brilliant with stars. And yet, the larger picture, the one you can’t quite wrap your mind around because it dominates the whole frontal screen of your imagination—a non-vision really, more a freight train of panic—is that ol’ scrunching down in the bushes with your pants around your ankles. Disasters plague your thoughts. My balance is lousy. I could get stuck in this position. Deep-knee bends aren’t my forté. I could topple over, land in it. And the branch? The one they say to grab to steady yourself—what if it snaps? I could get gucky, get bitten, get stickery. Get SEEN.
Yeow! The dreary particulars look endless.
But, in fact, nowadays, with a little preparation and equipment and the support of a a kindly coach, all can be overcome. The learning curve is no longer the hush-hush, trail-and-error ordeal it was when I began. Roaming everywhere are empathetic experts. Plus, there’s this guidebook . . .
Hole up on your comfortable, porcelain one-holer and read it. I’ll supply you right here with your first two hints—beyond the basics—for a superior, even revelatory, experience. Start by stepping off the trail and wandering far enough from the flow of other hikers that you won’t be interrupted, won’t be tripped over. But no so far that you’ll get lost. Locate an inviting view, be it a panoramic vista or close-in paradise. I’ve come to the point where almost anything will suffice: spiny devil’s club or monotonous talus are fascinating when quietly studied.
Once you’re in position, the spiritual is close at hand. Nobody is planted behind your locked bathroom door, reading War and Peace. Nobody is beating on said door, “Hurry it up!” Rather, it’s peaceful. Enchantment is on the way. Mountaintops on the horizon suddenly come into focus. A bird warbles. A flower smiles. Allow your weary soul to absorb this calmest away from the modern-day frenzy. Heave a sigh. Feel the sun and breeze tickling your bum. Meditate. It’s your spirit you want soaring—you’ve come for the view, the serenity, the communion with magnificence.
Now I want the ear of all the old hands (notice I didn’t say old-timers)—you, with the mastery and the finesse—I’m enlisting you to offer guidance and assistance to the novitiates; I just assured then the woods are full of our friendly gang. But first, a bit of encouragement for those of us taking up the mantle of “saviors to souls in otherwise dire-shitty-straights.” A story imparted by a friend and neighbor over a couple pints of Guinness at our local Scottish pub. The recalled episode issued forth from adventure guide extraordinaire Skip Horner, who has been leading creative, remote, and extreme adventures for decades. Were he not at this moment gliding over ice-cream snow in some place like Antarctica, I’d be sure of my details. Yet, I’m compelled to share the story here, if only from hazy memory, because Skip’s generosity and humanity brims with the inspiration we need.
Once you’re in position, the spiritual is close at hand. Nobody is planted behind your locked bathroom door, reading War and Peace. Nobody is beating on said door, “Hurry it up!” Rather, it’s peaceful. Enchantment is on the way. Mountaintops on the horizon suddenly come into focus. A bird warbles. A flower smiles. Allow your weary soul to absorb this calmest away from the modern-day frenzy. Heave a sigh. Feel the sun and breeze tickling your bum. Meditate. It’s your spirit you want soaring—you’ve come for the view, the serenity, the communion with magnificence.
Now I want the ear of all the old hands (notice I didn’t say old-timers)—you, with the mastery and the finesse—I’m enlisting you to offer guidance and assistance to the novitiates; I just assured then the woods are full of our friendly gang. But first, a bit of encouragement for those of us taking up the mantle of “saviors to souls in otherwise dire-shitty-straights.” A story imparted by a friend and neighbor over a couple pints of Guinness at our local Scottish pub. The recalled episode issued forth from adventure guide extraordinaire Skip Horner, who has been leading creative, remote, and extreme adventures for decades. Were he not at this moment gliding over ice-cream snow in some place like Antarctica, I’d be sure of my details. Yet, I’m compelled to share the story here, if only from hazy memory, because Skip’s generosity and humanity brims with the inspiration we need.
One year, two mountaineering teams from different countries were making an ascent on a high, hairy, majestic peak somewhere in the Eastern Hemisphere. They were camped at an elevation that’s riddled with ice crevasses, when a man on the other country’s team landed at the bottom of one of these yawning chasms, inside the sloshing contents of the communal potty, a rudimentary affair that had—until that second—been straddling the gap. His countrymen rudely turned up their noses at the stinky idea of hauling him out. It was Sir Skip Galahad who tossed him the end of a lovely, clean climbing rope, and, in so doing, bolstered international relations beyond any hopes and dreams of a head-of-state!
OK mentors, here we go. You know the ropes of where and how to dig, when it’s best to pack-it-out. You’re painfully acquainted with how fast embarrassment descends. And fully aware of the importance of personal comfort, proper sanitation, and respecting Mother Earth. Super-schooled you are, in-the-know, and poised to guide. Now take a minute and scroll back over your outdoor life and supply us all with a teaser: Where’s the grandest place you’ve ever crapped?
One of mine was near here, with that 70-mile sweep of the Bitterroot Range just beyond my toes!
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© 2011 by Author Kathleen Meyer • All Rights Reserved
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© 2011 by Author Kathleen Meyer • All Rights Reserved
Web site design by RapidRiver.us