You Can't Fall Off a Mountain

Olaiya and I are off to the woods. The Olympic peninsula beckons, with its lush Hoh River Valley rainforest, turquoise waters of Lake Crescent and labyrinthine bunkers high atop the hills of Fort Worden. We'll take the whole work week to hike and camp and cook simple meals over a single butane flame. To prepare, I've dug my tent and sleeping bag out of storage and purchased/borrowed strange devices: signifiers of manhood and independence: a compass, a pocketknife, waterproof matches, iodine pills, 100' of sturdy rope.

I remember backpacking with my parents when I was just 13... and going later with high school friends Andres, Calvin and Garrett. Arcane challenges like building a fire in damp conditions or nagivating a waist high river rekindle something in me. In my mind, I'm already riding the flume. I'm running down the mountain. I'm John Muir mixing it up with an avalanche. I know it won't be like that anymore. I'm too old and smart to leave the trail behind and get into any real trouble, but getting out of Seattle for a while and into some moss-covered riverbanks sounds like the perfect prescription for all my urban anxiety and fretting about health-care reform. Please don't blow up civilization while I'm gone.