The Pack
One of my earliest memories is one of The Pack. This pack is a large, crude yellow backpack, with a metal frame and many “accessories.” Accessories, not in the typical way we think, no color coordinated do dads, perfectly arranged patches nor a stain free exterior. This was not the look, demeanor, or style of The Pack. Instead the pack was fitted with crude reminders of its past travels and also with trinkets to ward off deep fears, (grizzly bears.)
The pack was brought out several times throughout my childhood and many times since, and although the style, color, shape, size, material, basically every feature has changed over the past 34 years, it’s function remains indefinitely the same.
I remember that it was always a big deal when the pack came out of hiding and became the centerpiece of the living room. Pop became frantic with to do lists, binders full of maps that could assist in the navigation of the Cape of Good Hope, Arkansas, either pole (or anywhere else you would want to go), and packing lists for every scenario. I learned quickly that the pack was synonymous with pop leaving. It was a bittersweet leaving, it always has been and I think that it always will be. Bittersweet in that my dad was leaving but we always knew we would get a trinket and there would be stories of the adventure. The trip was never very long; I guess long enough when you’re a kid, but never more than a few weeks, but it was long enough to make a lifelong imprint on my personality and my way of thinking.
I remember my sister and I would call my dad’s answering machine while he was gone with the pack, just to hear his voice. I would think in my mind about what was pop doing, what he was seeing, what he was experiencing. I knew from a very early age that I wanted to go; I wanted to see what the pack allowed pop and his brothers to see.
Most every time pop came home (with the pack) it was a joyous occasion. Our dad was back, my mom got a break from 2 kids that I am sure were hard to manage with 2 parents, let alone 1, and we were a family again. And then came the stories, the pictures, and the slides. Pop brought back pictures of things that to me looked like they were from a different planet. I saw large mountains, animals that I had never seen, even in storybooks, snow in July, ice cold lakes, flowers of every color, and trees that would make even the biggest southern red oak appear only a sapling. I couldn’t believe it. Every trip, every time I was mesmerized.
I wanted to go, I was hooked, I needed to see these things, breathe that air, experience what the pack meant, what the pack knew, what the pack had seen. I knew one day I had to, I would. It was a sense of adventure, of imagination and/or enlightenment that you can’t achieve by just staying in your parents’ old house or backyard in Erwin, Tennessee. I was starting to question the world, what was in it and who I was among it, I wanted my own pack.
As I became older the trips were just as exciting as ever, I was just old enough to understand the dynamics that had missed my attention as a child. Yes, we still missed pop, but I couldn’t wait for him to go because I couldn’t wait to see the pictures and hear the stories. For years I traveled vicariously through the pack, but he never knew it.
Through the years, pop began taking us. We began on little over-nighters, then week long hikes, trips out west etc. Now I will be the first to admit, that while I love to travel and love adventure, I’m not a hiking fan. But that’s the beauty of travel you can get there any way you want.
When I was 23 everything came full circle. I called the folks and told them I was moving to Yellowstone National Park to work, live, and explore. I don’t think I have ever seen my dad so happy and my mom so pissed. An old familiar feeling crept in, it was a feeling that had not surfaced since I was a small child. It was eerily similar, but familiar enough to where I didn’t run or hide from it, rather embraced it. The living room became an epicenter of activity. With binders of maps, packing lists for every occasion, to do lists, boxes of supplies and food and of course, the pack. I was doing it. I was packing my pack. It was time to go, to see what only the pack had seen.
I can say 10 years later, I owe a lot to the pack and the adventure that it brought to my life. From one of my earliest memories up to yesterday when I dropped off my pop and a freshly packed pack. Because of my dad’s pack travels that later became my pack travels, that will one day become my son’s pack travels, I met my soul mate, my sister met hers. We have 2 healthy, beautiful, intelligent children. We have lived in 8 states. Whitney and Boundary, Mt. Mitchell and Clingman’s Dome (along with others) have been summited. Stories have been told, secrets kept, alcohol consumed, bugs bit, tires flattened, tempers flared, fish caught, fires tended, feet blistered, rivers swam, rocks climbed, stars viewed, dreams achieved and life lived. All achieved because of one pack.
I dropped my dad off yesterday. Again, it was bittersweet as I pulled out of Jim’s driveway. The same tear stained, smiling face, but aged 34 years. I know pop will be gone for a while, but I can already feel it, the anticipation of the stories to come. To paddle the length of the Mississippi River, not too many can say they have done that. You can just add that to the vast list of adventures experienced by The Pack.
