To Olympia!

In September 2012, after what felt like a year of working one stressful project after another, all I wanted to do was leave town and see something different. I'm not entirely certain why I chose the Olympic Peninsula in Washington, but I don't think that really matters, the why. It's the journey, right?


Is it assumed that when traveling the first steps out the door are the hardest? Maybe not for business travel - there’s something at stake. And we have systems in place for business travel. Carry-on luggage, personal hygiene containers that fit just so inside the carry-on luggage, shirts that won’t wrinkle, and securing the right amount of Ambien.

But if the point of vacation is encouraging the nothingness and the stakeless, dawdling in the first hours is really just practice for letting go. It’s all in handling the dawdling and the dukha you create by dawdling.

This is the first camping trip of the year, even though it's coming late, in September. But the crowds should be thin. I know enough about myself that, even though I dream, dream wistfully with hand under chin and staring off to the right, that I will be on the road before 9am, I know such a dream is impossible without packing first. The night before.



I was already half-packed in the morning, some camping gear, some clothing, a small of box of utensils. A better start than usual. I was riding a little preparatory high bringing the last bag of clothes (of only two bags; this one was mainly hiking shoes and emergency wear like anoraks and sweaters) when the suspicion that I was leaving something behind came. And I was: there was no sleeping bag. I went up and pulled out the sleeping bag, which I keep next to the tent. Right. Got the tent. I pulled both out and found the self inflating bed roll. Oh that’s right, I pitch the tent and put down blankets and unfurl the bed roll and lay the sleeping bag on top. That’s my process.  All but forgotten, but into the car they went. Such a roomy little rental hatch back, too, I decided. There’s plenty of room left.

But why?

Damn. No coolers. I usually bring two of them, with food.

I need food. I need to stock the coolers with food.

I remember there’s a system for that too, the sub-routine of any camping trip: sustaining food in the coolers with bags of ice. While hiking that trail, immersed in the illusion of living closer to the level of nature, the bags of ice in the coolers are always thawing. It’s an on going maintenance program, part science (how close can I keep food before it warms past the line toward botulism?) and part creative engineering involving proper drainage of ice melt and keeping food from greasy submersion. To reach that problem, which I know will be the only problem to solve while camping, I have to buy food first.

Actually, to do that, I need to go to the bank first. I have this check that needs depositing, the check that will pay for my vacation.

Actually, to do that, I need to go to the laundry mat to get change to put in the parking meters outside the bank because the bank’s parking lot is being repaved. I remember how, three days ago, I was stopped from pulling in by yellow caution tape dangling across both entrances and then couldn't back out. Someone making the same mistake was behind me and neither of us could move because a stack of cars was lined up at the intersection waiting for the traffic light, pinning us both to our mistaken expectation that our bank would have a parking lot waiting for us. We were stuck for several minutes, waiting and shrugging in different, frustrated ways. A third person ultimately had to let both of us back out in front of them so we could unravel ourselves.

I had to look for parking then and need a space to be available, metered or otherwise, now. But to park, I need to break this twenty.

I know, I’ll buy some gum from the gas station. My rental doesn't need gas, but I'll go to a gas station which is built for easy coming and going, to buy gum and receive change. The gas station looks full. Several people stand holding hoses to their cars in a space that is neither easy nor going. There’s a panhandler who waves me towards an empty spot on one of the pumping islands, but I decline. I just want change, I say a bit out loud, not that he can hear me, though I smile making my way slowly to the curb outside the food mart where someone else is parked. I defy the law and leave my car behind theirs, barely leaving room for people to exit the gas station.

Inside the food mart there are aisles of packaged food I’d never eat unless I needed change or instant calories while on a long drive. They don’t have the flavor of gum I like, but that’s ok. So is the small line of people asking for a gas receipt or directions to the highway or if the guy behind the counter has a colder can of soda than the one just grabbed from the refrigerated section. I feel empty handed approaching the counter with just gum and no gas purchased outside. The guy at the counter handles us all swiftly. But he can’t break my twenty.

“Hmpt,” he says. “I don’t have enough ones.”

We both consider the tall stack of twenties pinned under the bill catch on one end of the register tray and the one or two worn dollar bills pinned in their slot. The tens are not so full, the fives are crowded and plentiful. Two quarters rest in their curved slot, compared to a heap of nickels. “I’m supposed to have a delivery come soon.”

I guess he means a money delivery. Like from Brinks.

“Just take the gum,” he says. He pushes his lower lip up into the top, almost like a frown, and adds a quick brush with his head, an easily understood international gesture of concession, friendship and conspiracy. You got the best of this deal, it says, now go. He throws in a wink for good measure when I don't heed it right away.

“I can’t. I need the change.”

This is more banality for him. Our conspiracy is gone. “I don’t know what to tell you. Go to a store. Next.”

I don’t get change, but I still want the gum for some reason, so I give him my debit card. He asks if I want money back. No, I don't. I have a check that needs depositing and still have to double park outside the bank and hope I don't get a ticket. I still have to go food shopping and debate with myself on whether getting a container of humus will only add to the yuck of melted ice water in the cooler. I haven’t bought ice. I haven't left town. I have to drive almost seven hours to reach a campsite in Southern Oregon before the sun goes down. I hate setting up a tent when it’s dark because I’ll still have to eat. Which means cooking in the dark. Which means I’ll have to build a fire either right away when I get a campsite or make my way around with my lamp and try gamely to set up my propane stove.

Which, I remember while walking to my car unwrapping my new pack of gum, is sitting on top of a shelf at home, placed at eye level so I wouldn’t forget it.

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