To all outward appearances, the Alaska night is peaceful. I'm in my tent after a full day of backpacking, tucked in and ready to sleep. Camp is situated at the base of a beautiful unnamed mountain, and a stream trickles nearby. Birds flit around near the water. The summer sun is low and honey colored.
However, if my thoughts were audible, they would boom from a megaphone in the sky.
No feeling in my right arm because it's crammed against my hip. Unnatural. Must move it.
Why is that horrible Rod Stewart song stuck in my head. Again. In the wilderness, this is not supposed to happen.
I wonder if my rain pants would make a decent pillow.
Right arm feeling slightly better. But my legs. Cold.
Rain pants are probably out. Too crinkly.
On and on this goes. When I check my watch, I see that I have been tossing and turning for an hour and 45 minutes.
Shouldn’t this be simple?
It always sounds so simple and straightforward: Go live out of a backpack a few days. Sure, it's logistically demanding up front. Planning the route, carefully packing food, scouting water availability and possible campsites. Packing extra duct tape and moleskin.
But once I'm out there, surely the good life will follow. After all, my choices are limited by what I have with me. Meeting basic needs comes first. If it rains, I'll do my best to stay dry. If I'm hungry, I'll eat. At the end of the day when I'm exhausted from all of the demands of walking, filtering water, cooking meals, and packing my little world around with me on my back, I'll set up a small shelter, crawl in, and sleep.
What sounds better, more elemental? I picture my sleeping bag as a cozy warm haven, waiting for me. The confines of my thin nylon tent walls provide a miraculous break from the wind. Being out in nature, confronted with only the melodic sensory inputs of wildlife and the elements — not the constant bleeping and tic-inducing buzzing of my phone — will be the salve for whatever pesters me. Surely, I will easily fall into a deep, restful sleep night after night.
The thing is, like anything in life, it's not quite like that. For one, let's just say it's been a while since I've backpacked. My body is accustomed to my daily hike up my carpeted stairs and straight to my nice, temperature-controlled room and pillow-adorned bed. There are no rocks under my bed. The mattress is neither lined with hard-foam ridges, nor something that can spontaneously deflate if something pierces it.
The first night of backpacking, I remember how easy it is for my body to gradually wander off of my skinny sleeping pad. I remember this because at some point I wonder why I'm freezing cold, and realize it's because there's nothing between me and the ground except a few layers of nylon and flattened, therefore useless, down feathers.
Then I remember that I hate sleeping on my back. My first hour is spent on my stomach or side, my usual position. The problem is the mummy bag design. Even though warm, it's difficult to figure out where to put my hands if I'm on my stomach. Sleeping on my side is slightly better, but not perfect. It's finally when I roll onto my back that I have the late-night "aha" moment, realizing that my sleeping bag is called a mummy bag for a reason. I will certainly be most comfortable if I can figure out how to not hate sleeping on my back, which I attempt for the next 45 minutes.
Then there's the problem of my face, with all of its breathing needs. I have my mummy bag cinched so that only my nose is exposed, and even that is too much, considering how cold the air around me suddenly feels. But I also need to breathe fresh air, because what's available within my sleeping bag is not ideal (especially after a day of hiking). I rearrange the sleeping bag chamber around my face in a very careful, very particular and balanced way so that cooler air is pulled down and circulated from the tiny mummy bag hole, warming a little by the time it gets to me but still essentially fresh.
So close to sleep
This is a turning point, and suddenly I start feeling comfortable. I've managed a side-sleeping position with all limbs squarely on my tiny sleeping pad, fresh but not freezing air coming in, and the light blocked by a headband over my eyes. My legs are warming up. I haven't thought about Rod Stewart in more than an hour. I think for a little while about rivers I've been walking alongside, flowing to new valleys and rushing on in beautiful, noisy cascades and then I am aware that those thoughts were very brief dreams. I'm so happy about finally nearing sleep, when I realize….
I have to get up and urinate.
After five minutes of desperately wishing it away, I finally tell myself to just deal with the problem. The rush of noisy movement that follows — fists punching out of the layers of sleeping bag and clothing, zippers unzipping, rifling around for boots, hauling my butt out of the tent, and then audibly shivering as I stagger around with one eye open — is enough to scare off any nearby wildlife. By the time I'm finally back in my bag, I try to recreate the precarious arrangement I had before. I squeeze my eyes shut. Eventually, I go to sleep, waking up only 10 times or so in the night to adjust my position.
If all of this sounds miserable and like it would make any sane person question her love of backpacking, maybe that's right. Maybe that's how a normal person would feel.
But for me, I wake up every morning feeling like it's a miracle I slept at all. I'm proud of myself for finally finding that perfect side-sleeping position; for banishing Rod from my thoughts. I pack everything back into my backpack, walk for a bunch of hours, and then do it all again, more than happy to be out there.
Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays throughout Southcentral Alaska.