As someone who is notoriously late whenever I’m out, I don’t necessarily need any more distractions.
I also don’t know what my estimated travel times are based on because they always take longer than I think, even though I’m moving faster than expected.
I have come to the conclusion that the same phenomena occur in the wild as in space: the further we go into space, the slower we age, while on Earth time seems to pass more quickly. What was just a nice day hike in the mountains for me, my family seems to have capitulated to a month of grocery shopping and laundry.
My outdoor companions seem to be just as naive as I am in this situation, because they always trust my time estimates. But just today a friend told me that her four-hour hike would take six hours.
“I said four,” I repeated.
“I know,” she said. “I always allow for a two-hour buffer.”
This concept is new to me. A buffer seems to defeat the purpose of planning altogether, or my other source of motivation: going faster than people on the internet suggest. I always assume that these estimates are based on people traveling with a wooden pirate leg and a raging toddler who recently insisted they can walk alone.
(Never let that happen – I’m sure cougars follow us silently, hoping we’ll put distance between us and our screaming offspring. This is also why I try not to scream too much when hiking.)
I should clarify that I understand buffers, just not time buffers. I buffer with food because buffers and buffet are only one letter apart. Sometimes I even justify my hodgepodge of hillbilly brunch treats by saying we might be out longer than planned, but most of the time it’s because I just plan on eating the M&Ms out of my trail mix.
It’s very likely that in an emergency situation where we would all consider cannibalism, I would pull an old bag of leftover nuts and raisins from the bottom of my bag to save my skin. If they find out I ate all the chocolate, they’ll fry me anyway. I’d understand.
On a recent 20-mile run day, I somehow miscalculated and assumed we would cover a lot of miles quickly while climbing over 4,000 feet in elevation. I didn’t take into account that neither of us ran regularly. I assume that anyone younger than me just runs everywhere all the time. In all honesty, we actually started out running – a gentle 3-mile descent through a surprise August chill and a downpour.
We had checked the weather, but none of us had the right clothes for the 7 degrees and rain, but if we ate all the food I had brought, we would gain enough weight to stay warm. And we were doing pretty well on time until the trail led through a thimbleberry field.
I grew up eating thimbleberries. As kids, my mom would send us out with a big bowl to fill with the little red things and take home so she could make a pie out of them. Thimbleberries are a little tart for a pie, so it was mostly flavored with sugar. But these berries surprised us with their plump, juicy flavor, and since they seemed to be such a rare delicacy, we took our time strolling through the field, wondering why no one had eaten them before. The upside of a three-hour drive to a trailhead and a 4-mile climb: The local berry pickers aren’t as dedicated.
Since we had already spent a few minutes browsing the field and stuffing ourselves, we decided to move on, hoping that the blueberries would thrive in the high country. I don’t know what makes a good berry season. I’ve read that a good snowpack and a warm enough spring for insects to do pollination are helpful. Whatever environmental and weather phenomena are necessary for blueberries to thrive, this year it was.
Before we had even gained any elevation, both sides of the trail were enveloped in an endless tunnel of blueberries. For miles, across climbs, ridges, descents, alpine fields, and old burns, the bushes closed in around the trail, glowing with swollen berries. Whole hills were seas of pie potential. We had no way of getting the berries out, but realizing the special circumstances we had found ourselves in, we just ate them instead.
They were perfect balls of bubbly celebration. The blueberry has a complex flavor, sweet and fresh with a tart center that isn’t surprising. It has a floral scent and something earthy and rich, yet deliciously fresh at the same time. I have no idea how nature creates this kind of delicious magic in such a small ball.
When I say we ate berries, I should clarify something: We ate a lot of berries. As many berries as we could. I didn’t check with my companions, but I’m assuming everyone ate very regularly for a few days. Also: We met all of our antioxidant intake quotas for the next year. Even when we were out and about, we just reached out and picked berries, popping the little purple orbs into our mouths like ravenous hiking gods. (We had long since given up on the idea of walking because it’s not conducive to berry eating and we get our priorities right.)
My fingertips turned purple. The food in my backpack remained neglected. And yes, our five-hour run turned into a nine-hour hike. But oh, were we full and happy!
Nature provides for us in so many ways (one might even say all of them), but nothing is as satisfying as those memories of its tangible and delicious abundance. It seems like maybe we should try to preserve them, if only so we can keep making blueberry jam.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at [email protected].
