I was surprisingly snug in my bag and in no hurry at all to put myself through the foolishness of climbing hills, so I just lay there as if under grave orders not to move. After a while I became aware that Katz was moving around outside, grunting softly as if from aches and doing something that sounded improbably industrious.
After a minute or two, he came and crouched by my tent, his form a dark shadow on the fabric. He didn’t ask if I was awake or anything, but just said in a quiet voice: “Was I, would you say, a complete asshole last night?”
“Yes you were, Stephen.”
He was quiet a moment. “I’m making coffee.” I gathered this was his way of an apology.
“That’s very nice.”
“Damn cold out here.”
“And in here.”
“My water bottle froze.”
“Mine, too.”
I unzipped myself from my nylon womb and emerged on creaking joints. It seemed very strange—very novel—to be standing outdoors in long johns. Katz was crouched over the campstove, boiling a pan of water. We seemed to be the only campers awake. It was cold, but perhaps just a trifle warmer than the day before, and a low dawn sun burning through the trees looked cautiously promising.
“How do you feel?” he said.
I flexed my legs experimentally. “Not too bad, actually.”
“Me either.”
He poured water into the filter cone. “I’m going to be good today,” he promised.
“Good.” I watched over his shoulder. “Is there a reason,” I asked, “why you are filtering the coffee with toilet paper?”
“I, oh … I threw out the filter papers.”
I gave a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “They couldn’t have weighed two ounces.”
“I know, but they were great for throwing. Fluttered all over.” He dribbled on more water. “The toilet paper seems to be working OK, though.”
We watched it drip through and were strangely proud. Our first refreshment in the wilderness. He handed me a cup of coffee. It was swimming in grounds and little flecks of pink tissue, but it was piping hot, which was the main thing.
He gave me an apologetic look. “I threw out the brown sugar too, so there won’t be any sugar for the oatmeal.”
Ah. “Actually, there won’t be any oatmeal for the oatmeal. I left it in New Hampshire.”
He looked at me. “Really?” then added, as if for the record: “I love oatmeal.”
“What about some of that cheese?”
He shook his head. “Flung.”
“Peanuts?”
“Flung.”
“Spam?”
“Really flung.”
This was beginning to sound a trifle grave. “What about the baloney?”
“Oh, I ate that at Amicalola,” he said, as if it had been weeks ago, then added in a tone of sudden magnanimous concession, “Hey, I’m happy with a cup of coffee and a couple of Little Debbies.”
I gave a small grimace. “I left the Little Debbies, too.”
His face expanded. “You left the Little Debbies?”
I nodded apologetically.
“All
of them?”
I nodded.
He breathed out hard. This really was grave—a serious challenge, apart from anything else, to his promised equanimity. We decided we had better take inventory. We cleared a space on a groundsheet and pooled our commissary. It was startlingly austere—some dried noodles, one bag of rice, raisins, coffee, salt, a good supply of candy bars, and toilet paper. That was about it.
We breakfasted on a Snickers bar and coffee, packed up our camp, hoisted our packs with a sideways stagger, and set off once again.
“I can’t believe you left the Little Debbies,” Katz said, and immediately began to fall behind.
chapter 4
W oods are not like other spaces. To begin with, they are cubic. Their trees surround you, loom over you, press in from all sides. Woods choke off views and leave you muddled and without bearings. They make you feel small and confused and vulnerable, like a small child lost in a crowd of strange legs. Stand in a desert or prairie and you know you are in a big space. Stand in a woods and you only sense it. They are a
After a minute or two, he came and crouched by my tent, his form a dark shadow on the fabric. He didn’t ask if I was awake or anything, but just said in a quiet voice: “Was I, would you say, a complete asshole last night?”
“Yes you were, Stephen.”
He was quiet a moment. “I’m making coffee.” I gathered this was his way of an apology.
“That’s very nice.”
“Damn cold out here.”
“And in here.”
“My water bottle froze.”
“Mine, too.”
I unzipped myself from my nylon womb and emerged on creaking joints. It seemed very strange—very novel—to be standing outdoors in long johns. Katz was crouched over the campstove, boiling a pan of water. We seemed to be the only campers awake. It was cold, but perhaps just a trifle warmer than the day before, and a low dawn sun burning through the trees looked cautiously promising.
“How do you feel?” he said.
I flexed my legs experimentally. “Not too bad, actually.”
“Me either.”
He poured water into the filter cone. “I’m going to be good today,” he promised.
“Good.” I watched over his shoulder. “Is there a reason,” I asked, “why you are filtering the coffee with toilet paper?”
“I, oh … I threw out the filter papers.”
I gave a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “They couldn’t have weighed two ounces.”
“I know, but they were great for throwing. Fluttered all over.” He dribbled on more water. “The toilet paper seems to be working OK, though.”
We watched it drip through and were strangely proud. Our first refreshment in the wilderness. He handed me a cup of coffee. It was swimming in grounds and little flecks of pink tissue, but it was piping hot, which was the main thing.
He gave me an apologetic look. “I threw out the brown sugar too, so there won’t be any sugar for the oatmeal.”
Ah. “Actually, there won’t be any oatmeal for the oatmeal. I left it in New Hampshire.”
He looked at me. “Really?” then added, as if for the record: “I love oatmeal.”
“What about some of that cheese?”
He shook his head. “Flung.”
“Peanuts?”
“Flung.”
“Spam?”
“Really flung.”
This was beginning to sound a trifle grave. “What about the baloney?”
“Oh, I ate that at Amicalola,” he said, as if it had been weeks ago, then added in a tone of sudden magnanimous concession, “Hey, I’m happy with a cup of coffee and a couple of Little Debbies.”
I gave a small grimace. “I left the Little Debbies, too.”
His face expanded. “You left the Little Debbies?”
I nodded apologetically.
“All
of them?”
I nodded.
He breathed out hard. This really was grave—a serious challenge, apart from anything else, to his promised equanimity. We decided we had better take inventory. We cleared a space on a groundsheet and pooled our commissary. It was startlingly austere—some dried noodles, one bag of rice, raisins, coffee, salt, a good supply of candy bars, and toilet paper. That was about it.
We breakfasted on a Snickers bar and coffee, packed up our camp, hoisted our packs with a sideways stagger, and set off once again.
“I can’t believe you left the Little Debbies,” Katz said, and immediately began to fall behind.
chapter 4
W oods are not like other spaces. To begin with, they are cubic. Their trees surround you, loom over you, press in from all sides. Woods choke off views and leave you muddled and without bearings. They make you feel small and confused and vulnerable, like a small child lost in a crowd of strange legs. Stand in a desert or prairie and you know you are in a big space. Stand in a woods and you only sense it. They are a
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