6 days, 7 nights, and Not Enough Food

My parents could easily be described as stubborn. The cause of many of my teenage fights with them was their ability to doggedly adhere to something they said in passing despite all logic and reasoning. If they remembered saying something, it was law. Never has this been more true than on what stands out as the worst backpacking trip in my entire memory of hating backpacking trips.

For some reason, my parents decided to up the backpacking ante, so to speak, by prolonging our woodsy experience to the unmanageable timeline of 7 days and 6 nights. To put this into perspective, that is a day longer than the entire vacation I just booked (to a beach, of course.) Knowing what we already discussed about backpacking, my parents' arbitrary decision of days doomed me to a full calendar week of no showers and no plumbing. If you also recall, I was not fond of grass, or dirt, or living like a homeless person. This is the trip that broke me.

I remember my parents being deliberately vague about the length of the trip. They somehow avoided mentioning it until packing the night before and I think they still said, “just pack a week’s worth in case you want to change a bunch.” Little did I know, my fate was sealed. At the time, my dad and brother were in the middle of their fly fishing phase. Fly fishing, as you may know, is where you spend a lot of money for fake bugs to trick fish onto your line. It ignores the fact that fish generally taste best when fully grown and prepared for much less money indoors, but I digress.

As we packed, I noticed that the food supply seemed a little underwhelming but was assured that my dad’s fishing skills would supplement the rations. I like fish, so I was okay with that part. We embarked the next day and hiked a pretty familiar trail into the Indian Peaks Wilderness. We were supposed to stay in an area we’ve visited a few times before on previous, shorter, trips. The hike is long, not easy, but not over a mountain. It more or less follows a creek, or river, depending on rainfall. It’s mostly wooded which provides a nice amount of shade and at some point opens up to a pretty vast field up one side of the mountain. For people who find mountains pretty, it’s picturesque.

My parents refer to it as the site with ‘Stargazer Rock,’ which was a big flat rock we would lay on in order to stave off boredom. Because by day three, counting stars is the most interesting thing you can do.

The trip started off normally enough. Day one and two were okay. Not quite filthy, relatively entertained, adjusting to a total lack of human activity. Day three is usually my limit. I have always had long hair. I have also always been the only one with long hair. My mom’s hair is generally a short, sporty style, above the ears. Neither my dad nor brother went through a hippie phase so their hair was also above their ears. Mine was waist length. Trying to explain to them how waist-length hair required certain maintenance was a perpetually uphill battle. My dad still can’t identify the difference between shampoo and conditioner. Day three was usually when my hair product began to fail me. And this trip was no different in that department.

What was different, however, would pose a much bigger problem. It turns out that wild fish are a little more discriminating, and didn’t really fall for my dad and brother’s fake fly trick. They held their ground and resisted ending up on a camp stove the entire time. Good for them. We however, were left without food. Remember, if you will, my concern while watching them pack.

Without the supplement of fish, we were left with crackers. And peanut butter. Enough for about 3 days by my estimation. By day 4 we were really reaching for meals. Somehow 3 crackers and a dollop of peanut butter counted as a full dinner. During the last two days of the trip, my brother and I spent the endless hours balancing on dead trees conjuring images of the perfect feast. We were middle class white kids dreaming about food like we came from, well, anywhere but America. It was unseemly.

The problem was compounded by the lack of activities. It turns out that day hikes require energy, brought on by food. So those were not an option. Which left sitting there. In the woods. With nothing to snack on. The two days at the end of the trip felt like a week. Neither my stomach or my filthy head could take it.

Day three also brought on another unexpected obstacle. One I could have sworn would get us out of there. My mom had an unexpected visit from ‘the curse.’ And by unexpected, I mean fully unplanned for. No supplies. Whatsoever. And in some kind of survivor-style commitment to their word, she stayed for an astonishing 4 more days. I was pre-pubescent at the time so I didn’t understand the magnitude of this unwavering devotion to nature at the time. But as a grown woman… I’m still blown away. 

What I did not, and never will understand, is how my parents never just packed it in and admitted defeat. I mean, we walked in there. We could just as easily have walked right the hell out of there. I remember trying to pressure my dad by pretending my mom was too embarrassed to request a surrender. This, of course, failed. The one thing about couples who have been married for 30 plus years is, they tend to know the shit out of each other. And unfortunately for me, my dad knew the only person more stubborn than him, was my mom.

So we stayed. Through lack of food, complete boredom and endless whining (from me, I’ll admit it.) Even the awe-inspiring power of nature’s giant FU to women could not make my parents shift their completely arbitrary vacation plans. Throughout all my memories of those summer trips, only one thing was able to shift their plans. And that, was should-have-died experience.