A Portrait of Wildness as a Giant Pack Crushing Me
by David Huebner

I’m hunched over a distended 7,000 cubic inch pack, feeling a strange embarrassment at my parents having to see this. What must they think of their son now? I mumble lines like "Welcome to my life…" My mom and dad amazed, dumbfounded. "We could mail some stuff back to you?" No, it’s alright. Witnessing this must be strange for them. I’ll be skinning past chair 12, and up the cat track under chairs 13 and 14 to the boundary of the ski area before heading down over two thousand feet to my cabin. My parents can only sort of imagine this from the parking lot. And he’s found a girlfriend who’ll do this too, on her own? Maybe they’re excited to see this detail of my life, a son they’ve learned will avoid the beaten path at all cost. I feel embarrassed nonetheless. While everyone else I know holds jobs, pays rent, are acting members of society, I am loading my back to the point of bruising bone. My parents must be wondering: "We produced this person? Wow."

Every time I’ve hauled a big pack home I’ve experienced a renewed realization of the isolation I’ve imposed upon myself. It’s one thing to travel in and out with a light load, sunny skies, a good snowpack, but today, with a light snowfall, wind, and thin icy snow conditions, it is indeed marvelous. Fantastic. Crazy? Staring at the Ritter Range cloaked in ripping clouds, summits enveloped, valleys coming and going from sight, I think paradise is hard to get to indeed, and it’s not just via the road less traveled, there is no road at all.

Starting down in a snowplow, I hope my legs, shoulders, back, and knees will survive the journey. With a pack this size, a fall could cause a bad injury. Even being careful doesn’t prevent me from falling. The pack is so heavy I can’t get up unless I unbuckle it. Each time it feels heavier. I make it to the edge of the burned forest and begin navigating through downed trees. The snowpack is 6 inches deep, but there’s not too many bare spots. Stepping over logs, sidestepping between them, slipping, edging, and occaisionally braving a quick turn before skidding to a stop exhausts every muscle in my body. At one point I get so twisted around in a fall that I have to take both a ski and my pack off to get up. Whenever frustration tries to produce a "God Dammit!" I catch myself. Eventually I’m "skiing" across small areas of dirt, and branches, daylight fading, but I can’t get upset, it is too incredible, indeed spiritual, to be needing effort like this just to get home. Growing up in L.A. I never would’ve imagined I’d make it this far beyond the fence of modern society, face down in the snow, giant pack crushing me. I’ve really jumped, made it to wondrous fields of wildness. The trees look blue with laughter, watching my hilarious display, so I try to laugh with them, and eventually, painfully, make it home. Thoreau wrote "In wildness is the preservation of the world." And as I flip on lights, strike a fire for a pot of tea, I think he must have felt what I feel now. Living among wildness,is not an escape from anything, it is the only way to be.