In English class, we were told to write an essay that expressed insight based on a personal experience, which eventually led to a personal belief. I chose to talk about my experience backpacking. Enjoy!
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Giantkiller
I enjoyed my dirt mustache. Immensely. It rested on my lip as a tattoo, a winking label gloating to the world-- “Yes, I have backpacked 30 miles without any fatal injuries.” Of course, attached to the dirt mustache came a grimy face, musty arms, and legs covered with about three days (with no shower) of faithful nature. They were my trophies.
In retrospect, I’m not exactly sure why I chose to subject myself to this ordeal. Perhaps, the masochist that is my alter ego told my reason to throw away logic and fear to undertake a three day backpacking trip through Lake Tahoe. Whatever the reason, I found myself at the base of a 30 mile trail weaving through hills with a thirty pound backpack, handfuls of trail mix oodles of water, one outfit, and a shovel--to take care of my own nature’s call.
As we began the hike, I fixated my eyes on the back of my friend’s shoes. With the rhythm of a bellows they rose up and down, methodical, steady, and my steps soon fell behind hers. We came to a series of giant steps that went steeply up the hillside. As I gasped heavily, urged my legs towards the next step, the story of Jack and the Beanstalk wormed its way into my head-- a welcome distraction to the challenge ahead of me.
It’s a classic story-- poor boy Jack gets ripped off by an infomercial man, gets magical beans that grow into a wicked beanstalk, and in the end, murders a giant who fee-fi-fo-fums his way into death. Jack the Giant Killer, who on the last page of his story, marries a princess and bathes in riches. As I climbed up the steep incline, I speculated: what would Jack do after killing his giant? Did he return home content, gloating that he killed a giant while never opting to do it again? Or would he perhaps take requests from neighboring kings and queens who wanted their monsters getting rid of? The point is, after Jack kills a giant, what becomes of his story? Honestly, I always hated this tale, because I was never quite satisfied with its ending--boy kills giant, then sits on his butt for the rest of his pages?
The arduous steps ended, and we walked into a clearing next to a bottomless lake, vast and pristine. I watched as the boys in my camp proceeded to yell, drop their packs, and run into the trees bordering the lake to fulfill their bodily functions that they had apparently held for three hours. We sat and ate fried beans under fingers of night and stars, later sleeping with our faces upturned to the frigid black air.
The next day was the worst. After waking up in the wee hours of the morn, we set out for five miles through a grassy valley. It was a nice change of pace until we reached the end of the valley which leaked into a trail that eventually placed one 100 feet up on a ledge. It was a narrow trail, lazily weaving through the whiskers of the hill, bursting with wildflowers to create a comical mustache. I grunted and started the hike.
As thinking about Jack the Giant Killer seemed a welcome distraction last time, I tried it again. This time, I thought about a different aspect of his adventure. After he kills the giant, what did the climb down the vine and back to the earth feel like? Perhaps he had a sudden epiphany, as one usually does after an act of significance. Did he see a blooming of paths he could take, the legacy he could create? Or was all he saw a way down into security, gravity, and comfort?
Secretly, I hoped Jack looked towards his new possibilities. It just didn’t seem right that the hero of the story rested easy after achieving his goal-- it made sense for him to keep reaching, higher and higher. To me, if I reach my determined goal, reverting to normalcy is the same as vanishing into mediocrity. Even if I fulfill my self-determined potential, I feel I must reach for more--more being opportunities, chances, I’m not quite sure, but it will not do to rest back in limbo.
After many a fee-fi-fo-fum, I reached the top. Barely. After the trek, I crept closer to the edge of the ledge and looked down. What I saw was death. One hesitation and you would be just a memory. I turned away from the ledge and strolled towards our makeshift camp, each step becoming increasingly sure and solid.
The last day was the easiest. Just a meandering down the hill, and out of the wilderness to a civilized paved road. Through the woods and down the way. Easy. But in my head, I had killed a giant. I braved three days with a shovel for makeshift toilets and a dirt mustache that wiggled merrily on my lip. On my way down, in my head all I could see was a tree of paths, each reaching towards the sky--a branch full of buds bursting to bloom.
