Awakening

I awaken. And by that I mean that I open my eyes. For I’d been awake nearly the whole night through. Did I sleep at all? I can’t really tell, but I’m doubtful of it. You know how it is on nights when you just lay in bed for eight hours straight. … laying. Not sleeping. And by bed I mean on the ground. In a tent. On an inflatable camping pad that does inflate, but has a slow leak requiring a roll-off and reinflate every hour or so. (I should get that fixed.) The sleeping bag I’m using is….at home.

I haven’t camped in a while. I haven’t camped off of a motorcycle in even longer. And it’s my first time packing for a camping trip on my new Yamaha. So in the process, I somehow missed that ever important item. The thing that keeps the cold out and the warmth in. The first night wasn’t all that bad. Cloud cover insulated the atmosphere, keeping the crisp cold at bay, and a thunderstorm with bright flashes and big rain drops pattering on my tent put me to sleep, like a sweet lullaby sung over me by my Mother Nature. (Granted, one of my rainfly portal windows dropped open in the night and let some water in. I had duck tape on both of them already for that reason, and had to borrow a little more from the campground host to mend it. I’ve been using the same camping gear for over a decade. Perhaps it’s time to upgrade….but I love my camping gear and hate to part with it.)

But last night….on the other hand, was clear as could be. And the cold air permeated the lower atmosphere and lent a kind of frigid sting to my skin surface. I’m camping at 6,000 ft. in the Black Hills of South Dakota, by Deerfield Lake. Campsite #12: a lovely spot with a parking spot, picnic table, and fire ring up top, then grassy steps that lead down to the tent platform, with direct access path straight down to the lake, which can be seen through the trees from the tent. I don’t have a thermometer but my best guess is low 40’s Fahrenheit. Not bad at all if you have a bag to insulate you from it.

My “warmth” situation was this: wool sock, with foot warmers that did nothing as best I could tell. A Mexican blanket wrapped around my feet and legs. Long underwear, jeans, and my Goretex motorcycle riding pants with hard armor in them. (Good for keeping the body protected and rain and wind out. Not at all good for providing comfort or warmth.) A t-shirt, flannel shirt, light jacket, motorcycle jacket liner — again good only for wind and rain — and my actual motorcycle jacket with its bulky textile armor-filled, zero-heat-producing nature, draped over my torso. Topped off with a neck warmer and a beanie. Still. So cold. Not shivering cold. But deeply cold. Being on a lake, the moisture in the air is thick and makes everything feel cooler and damp, and wet condensation has soaked the ground. My rainfly. Everything outside.

So I just lay there, cold, waiting for the first sign of light, so I would have a reason to get up and leave the cold ground and tent. I want to add hiking each day to keep my body — a little stiff from so much riding — loose and free. I saw last night there was a trail that went all the way around the lake. The campground host, Roger, said it was like 3-4 miles, which is perfect! Light comes and I pop up and get moving! Togo for a hike around the lake — but the trail is ?. It kind of disappears and reappears at random intervals. I take the road and find a sign that has more information. The trail, it would turn out, is 11 miles. Damn Roger! Had the trail been evident, I would have just went for it. You almost sent me on journey that I was not at all prepared for. I jog back to my campsite to try and warm my body up.

The sun rose around 5am. My hopes were high — LIGHT! WARMTH! — but my hopes rose higher than the sun — which disappeared behind clouds almost instantly. Every so often shining a little brighter through thinner clouds, teasing me. I pleaded and begged for it to shine — even if only for 10 minutes — long enough to dry my rainfly and warm my chilled body. To no avail. I’m so frigid!

I go down to the lake in order to hike hard back up and create friction and heat. But I get distracted by the calm, serene beauty and a gaggle of geese on a family field trip. The only thing I don’t like about Canada is their geese. But this family of them wading to another inlet’s shoreline is sweet. Babies in the wake of the parents. Even though minutes earlier they were making an awful, obnoxious echoing ruckus, and I hated them for it. I hike back up. It’s not enough. I sit on my pannier and brew another cup of coffee on the Jetboil. The only way I have to create and feel heat.

I again beg the sun to come out….verbally. Instead the wind picks up. And blows all the clouds right to the sun. I don’t know. Maybe the sun wakes up hungry and has to eat all these clouds for breakfast to get the nourishment it needs, and when the great orb has had its fill, it can then shine brightly for the day. Maybe clouds are the sun’s morning coffee.

My fingers are so cold. I can barely write this. And yet… aaah, those two little words, and yet. Two words that make a frequent appearance in an exes’ favorite book, ‘The History of Love’ by Nicole Krauss. These have always stuck with me since she lent me the book to read. That idea of ALL OF THIS #$%@ stuff!!! ….and yet! The contrast. The calm within storms, and the storms within the calm. The notion of beauty despite hardship. The possibility of perspective. I have a visually prompting piece of art at home in my bathroom by Scott Erickson that reads “Even the darkest journeys, are surrounded by wondrous things.”

And so yeah…I’m not mad. I’m not disappointed. I’m not upset. I’m simply sleepless and cold. Facts of life. This all rings my brain like a bell, and I sit and look around, listening to the birds, watching the serenity of the lake’s surface, tasting another sip of coffee. This is my present moment to live in. Mine alone. And it’s beautiful. And cold. And yet…it’s beautiful!

And in a moment of perfect poetry, as I finish my now cold coffee, the sun seems to finish its cloud breakfast, and begins to shine brightly for the day, just as I pack up and get going. And as I warm up the motorcycle and gently twist the throttle to ride away on the dirt road, onto another leg of an uncertain adventure, I ponder if the entire purpose of a cold, sleepless night was to lead me to a moment. A beautiful poetic moment where I reign in, realize, and live in the AND YET. …

The Elbow of My Couch

Morrison