With the advent of backwoods chairs, and tarps, and mattresses, and all sort of highfalutin thingamajigs, it’s easier today more than ever before to never have to come into contact with the ground in the woods.
Just last week I had hundreds of folks in a fever over the fact that my preferred shelters don’t have floors in them. “You’d stay warmer if your shelter had a floor!” some opined rather strongly. They’re wrong. A floor doesn’t have anything at all to do with the temperature inside your shelter. A floor on a shelter is just unnecessary added weight, and for some, psychological comfort. But if you’ve weaned yourself out of the need for the psychological comfort, then it’s just unnecessary added weight.
Well, I ain’t no angel. I’ve fallen into using chairs and that sort of thing. Some of them have become so light and compact, and offer so much comfort for so little a price, it sort of becomes a matter of “why not?” Why not throw this thing in my pack and carry it out there?
But this is a reminder for you - and for me too - to think of the ground as your friend. Think of the dirt, and the twigs, and the pebbles, and the mud as your friend. Get down in it. Come out with it all over you.
Sure, nobody wants to mess up those purty britches they shopped so hard for, and nobody wants that cute little $200 fleece to get a spot on it. But do it anyway.
Do it anyway.
It’s part of experiencing the woods and the natural world for real - of gettin’ nice and intimate with Mother Nature. Nobody wants to get dirty when they’re clean, but once you do, you’re free. Free to plop right down in the dirt. Free to stop thinking about how your hair looks, or whether folks will be able to see the fancy logo of your soft shell in the pictures and videos later.
The cost is little, the rewards will be great, when you begin thinking of the ground as your friend.
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Around these parts it used to be common for families to have a single tree somewhere out in the woods where everybody would go to carve their names, and leave a testament to their existence. Kids would grow up and then take their own kids out to this tree - their trusty pocket knives in their little pockets, so that they too could join in this sacred bonding ritual.
It’s a disappearing custom even here in these parts.
Here’s our family tree, and yes, my initials are carved deep into it, the bark swollen after the passing of 40 years. I remember very clearly the day my father took me back there and stood by proudly while I added myself to it.
