The kitchen scale confirms a truth
my aging body already knows—
my backpack is too heavy.
I construct a spreadsheet,
detail the weight
of each packed item.
Like a desperate wagoner, I jettison,
repackage, replace.
A 23 ounce tent that works,
its titanium stakes too light to measure!
A 2.5 ounce Gigapower stove!
My spreadsheet neighs like a colt.
Soon I will trek mountains and rivers,
embrace sunny meadows
gulp cold springs,
become lighter,
lighter yet.
(No. 88 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
My backpack, passport to back country, is also a surrogate for my body. Of course, a backpack needs to move like an extension of one’s body, especially for off trail hiking, and it also needs to reflect what one is capable of carrying. Otherwise the pain outweighs the joy, and tiredness precipitates accidents. So, as the years go by, my focus must be on lightening my load–a near spiritual fiddling. There are lots of good resources, including friends, who support these somewhat obsessive endeavors.
Of course the whole point is to allow communing with God’s country for as long as possible.
(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)
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