camp:
Big Pine, California, near Mono Lake
Out
here, my body feels like my own. When I’m hungry, I eat and feel full—no
deluding myself past hunger with a half-meal of potato chips, plain rice or the
remnants of a two-day old stir-fry pilfered from the dining hall. Two hours
later, my stomach remains calm—no mysterious pains, no unexplained bouts of
diarrhea. I drink tea every day in such quantities that I pee like I’m supposed
to—more than twice a day, clear and copious, making the dusty ground smell like
it’s just rained. I sleep as close to the sun as I ever have in my life, and
when it’s not too cold, my liner and sleeping bag feel more cozy and perfect
than the most luxurious bed I’ve ever slept in. Even now, when I’m bleeding, I
can barely tell—the cramps that have paralyzed me past the point of walking are
completely absent.
Living
outside, you feel everything. If it’s cold outside, you’re cold. If it’s warm,
you’re hot. If it rains, you get wet. And it’s always dusty, a fine layer
coating you, your clothes, books and even choking its way inside your nose,
turning your boogers black for weeks at a time.
Here,
small things trigger emotions. A single lump of brown sugar dissolving in my
mouth or a particularly beautiful sunrise feels like heaven, or at least as
close to it as I’m ever likely to be in this life. Similarly, heat or a side
glance from someone can ruin my afternoon, causing me to become grumpy, brood
and generally refuse to be happy. The good, of course, comes far more
frequently and keeps me in a near-constant state of contentment and excitement,
alternating between the two sinusoidally as the content of my belly grow and shrink.
Out here, food is a constant source of joy. Food nourishes you, leaves you
feeling more than just full. Food keeps you going, keeps you human, keeps you
humble.
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