Backpacking: “Do you actually find this fun?”

When I first applied to Trinity College, I signed up for a program called Quest. Through this program, groups of upperclassmen led freshmen on backpacking trips on the Appalachian trail. I knew I loved the outdoors. I had wanted to participate in an outdoor pre-orientation program before I knew that I wanted to go to Trinity.

The Quest program was my first introduction to backpacking. On the first day, we were dropped off on the side of the road. We hiked to the trailhead and then for another couple of miles to our campsite. That night, we played cards until it was almost dark, cooked our own food over a tiny Whisperlite stove and then fell asleep with nothing above us but the trees and the stars. I knew, as I drifted to sleep that night, this was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Already, I had fallen in love with this way of life.

Almost two years later, my best friends at college remain those who were in my original Quest group. I have taken on a leadership role as a Quest Trainer. Not only do I lead incoming freshmen on trips like the one that I experienced, I also train new leaders. My life at school revolves around the Quest program. Even so, when I talk to those outside of the Quest community, people don’t always get it. We sleep on the ground with no tents; when it rains we use a simple tarp set up which usually doesn’t keep us as dry as we’d hope. We hike long days, sometimes in extreme weather conditions.

Certainly being a Quest leader requires a ton of work, responsibility, and perseverance. For those of you who are familiar with backcountry living, you’ll understand that the backpacking lifestyle means roughing it, sometimes to extremes. It means being prepared and it means, often times, being uncomfortable. So why do I keep doing this? I can absolutely see how my family might look at this experience from the outside and not understand my motivations.

It would be easy to explain my love for Quest in a simple list. Life is just simpler on the trail; the community is wonderful; I love being outside. These are all very true; however, these simple statements barely begin to capture my love for the trail.

A week ago, the Quest community went on a training trip in the Catskills. These training trips occur every May and are designed to be a bit more challenging for potential leaders. This year, when deciding on the course design, we were considering three locations: the Catskills, the Adirondacks and the Appalachian Trail. Because the Adirondacks were still snowy and we were already very familiar with the Appalachian Trail, we chose the Catskills. Our program director scouted most of the course a week before our trip to make sure conditions were safe.

On the van ride there, we were all in very good spirits. We knew it was supposed to rain. Many of us were prepared to be a bit uncomfortable and had planned accordingly. By the time that we got dropped off, it was pouring rain. Getting out of the vans required a little bit more motivation. We all regarded the weather wearily, but despite this we braced ourselves and set out.

Once out of the van, we had to hike to the trailhead, up the road from our drop off point. My group began to trudge up a slick highway in order to find it. On the road, we were more exposed to the rain and our layers were quickly soaked through. We hiked two miles up the road, eyes peeled for the trail, before we began to get confused. “Where’s the trail?” we kept wondering. Finally we decided to turn back around and trudged back down the rainy highway.

It turns out, the trail was blocked off by a highway median, overgrown, and plastered with no trespassing signs. We had missed it in the first couple of minutes. After adding an unnecessary four miles to our hike, we were finally on what vaguely resembled a hiking trail. Now, the fun part began. The trail began with a steep incline. We started our real hiking with uphill and we wouldn’t be done with the uphill until we camped that night. Straight up we went, into the mountains, slowly we began to see our breath. Steam rose off of us as the air got colder. Eventually, already rain soaked and exhausted, we began to see snow on the ground. It began as little clumps. “There’s snow!” we exclaimed, spotting it on the side of the trail.

Unfortunately, our excitement wouldn’t last. The little clumps began to turn into a heavy few inches, consistently coating the trail and everything around us. Our morale began to decline. We were tired, we were hungry but most importantly, we were cold. Not one of us had a dry layer left on and half of us hadn’t eaten lunch. As the uphill flattened out slightly and our heart rates slowed to a normal pace again, we began to shiver.

At first, it was nothing to worry about, but gradually things got worse. Our hiking became shuffling; my co-leader began slipping and tripping all over the place; I slowly lost my ability to speak coherently; one of our leaders in training started hysterically laughing to the point of tears. Another shut down completely and wouldn’t speak at all. These were the first signs of hypothermia. Having completed my wilderness first aid training only days earlier, I recognized them immediately.

My first instinct was to turn to my co-leader, ask her what to do. I assumed she had the answers because she was a year older than me, but I quickly realized that she was no better off than I was. We were both the ones making the decisions; we were sharing the responsibility. “What do we do?” we both kept asking one another. Our camping situation was less than ideal; with no lean-to shelter within walking distance, our tarp was the only thing to protect us from the rain and the snow.

It was in these moments that my leadership skills began to come out. I am not always the most assertive leader, but I recognized the need for a strong voice. I stopped our group, dispersed my supply of granola bars among five hungry leaders. Forcing everyone to put on at least one dry, warm layer, I made the decision to call our director. Because of the limited service, I got his voicemail. This was disconcerting. I had been expecting him to get on the line and tell us exactly what to do.

Our director is the most capable, level headed man I’ve ever met. I had envisioned him finding a way to get us all out of these conditions and into a better situation. Without his guidance, it was up to me and my co-leader. We kept hiking. There was absolutely nowhere to sleep because in addition to the snow, we were hiking through a marshy river.

We ended up making camp at the first semi-dry, semi-flat stretch of ground that we could find. Setting up the tarps as fast as we could, we rushed to put on our dry layers. We got into our sleeping bags, and ate whatever sugar we could find in order to give our bodies fuel to warm up. I kept in mind my training, created the best tarp setup that I possibly could, and took control of the situation. Though it was a cold night, we all made it out of there. Because of the shared experience, we were able to bond and laugh about the situation.

Four days later, when the trip was ending and we were all free to leave, I looked back on everything. Even after all that had happened, I wanted to relive it. We had been able to laugh, sometimes hysterically, at our own misfortunes. On the trail, nothing else had mattered except getting warm and dry. We had been uncomfortable, but somehow, looking back on the days, that wasn’t the part that I remembered. I looked back on the trip and I remembered my co-leader and I taking charge, making the situation better; I remembered our triumphs; I remembered our community, built by working together to boost morale and make one another laugh; I remembered our crazy stories, the ones that can still make me laugh out loud. In addition to all that, never had I felt so secure in my own capabilities, in my training and in my leadership.

When I returned home, I told the story of the time I got hypothermia, the time I camped in the snow and climbed what seemed to be a mountain that only went up. I couldn’t seem to explain to my family why I loved this so much. Nevertheless, I told these stories with a big smile on my face every time. Even if they couldn’t understand it themselves, they must’ve seen the excitement on my face, the passion that I had.

I think this is a story about passion. We can’t always explain why we love doing the things we do. Even if we could explain, it doesn’t always come down to these simple reasons. I think this is also a story about perseverance. Sometimes we do something because of difficulty rather than in spite of it. I can’t necessarily explain why I return to the backcountry and why I love backpacking. Perhaps the reason I love it isn’t in spite of the struggles we endure, but rather because of them.