I am a whiner, when it doesn't matter, and I come through surprisingly well when it does. I surprise even myself sometimes. One thing you should know is that I despise carrying heavy backpacks, to the point where I simply refuse to do that "backpacking through Europe/Asia/Africa" thing. I will take a suitcase, thank you very much, with wheels, and I will roll it. I am not a snail, carrying my world around on my back.
All the way up the trail on Saturday, I whined about my heavy backpack. It hurt me. It hurt the small of my back where the hip strap is and my shoulders where the shoulder straps are and my chest bone where the front clasp is.
I recovered when we got to the campsite where warm chicken stew and rice awaited and we sat by the fire with faces feeling crispy from the heat and backs stinging from cold. We had highly mature conversations, tending toward things like, "Would you rather puke on yourself or poop your pants?" (inspired by the baby that one couple brought along). There was consumption of copious quantities of gatoritas (not by me; I hate the taste of tequila). The creek rustled along down below and the fire snapped and popped.
After a while, we made our way in the dark to the hot baths. I looked back along the trail and saw a stream of elvish bobbing lights following me, and we took off our clothes in the dim light of oil lamps and scurried two or three at a time into deep hollowed logs filled with steaming sulfur water, ignoring the invitation of two slightly creepy men hogging the big pool. Someone passed a flask of whiskey from tub to tub.
One of our number was overcome by the heat and the dehydration and the whiskey, and we helped her into her clothes and carried her down the trail, which seemed much much longer when navigated three across in achingly slow steps over tree roots and rocks, with a steep drop on the right side.
In the morning, I took all the heavy stuff in my pack, to lighten hers, and cinched it up tight. I marched along down the trail, utterly unperturbed by the stopping for puking or by the weight on my back. Funny. The weight didn't seem so painful when carrying it helped someone else.
All the way up the trail on Saturday, I whined about my heavy backpack. It hurt me. It hurt the small of my back where the hip strap is and my shoulders where the shoulder straps are and my chest bone where the front clasp is.
I recovered when we got to the campsite where warm chicken stew and rice awaited and we sat by the fire with faces feeling crispy from the heat and backs stinging from cold. We had highly mature conversations, tending toward things like, "Would you rather puke on yourself or poop your pants?" (inspired by the baby that one couple brought along). There was consumption of copious quantities of gatoritas (not by me; I hate the taste of tequila). The creek rustled along down below and the fire snapped and popped.
After a while, we made our way in the dark to the hot baths. I looked back along the trail and saw a stream of elvish bobbing lights following me, and we took off our clothes in the dim light of oil lamps and scurried two or three at a time into deep hollowed logs filled with steaming sulfur water, ignoring the invitation of two slightly creepy men hogging the big pool. Someone passed a flask of whiskey from tub to tub.
One of our number was overcome by the heat and the dehydration and the whiskey, and we helped her into her clothes and carried her down the trail, which seemed much much longer when navigated three across in achingly slow steps over tree roots and rocks, with a steep drop on the right side.
In the morning, I took all the heavy stuff in my pack, to lighten hers, and cinched it up tight. I marched along down the trail, utterly unperturbed by the stopping for puking or by the weight on my back. Funny. The weight didn't seem so painful when carrying it helped someone else.
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