• October 15, 2012
• By Douglas D. Fishe

 

Lots of people like to go hiking. I'm one of them.

Once a year, I like to stretch my hiking limits, to remind myself that I can do anything I put my mind to.

This year, I set out to conquer the biggest mountains in Michigan (yes, we have some) with about 70 pounds on my back.

When you're in the bush, there are no drinking fountains, trash cans and very few pit toilets – the state keeps the "wilderness" in Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park. Some of the pit toilets I came upon had signs that read "Paying guests only!" No kidding.

The first pit toilet I passed said something about composting technology brought over from Sweden in the 1930s. It claimed to keep the smell away. My nose said otherwise. I don't think it had been cleaned since the CCC boys installed it, so I didn't go in.

One of the great joys of overnight backpacking – believe me, there aren't many and they come dozens of miles or even days apart – is losing weight. I don't mean the weight around my midsection, although that is a nice side benefit, I mean the weight off my back.

Every day the pack gets a little lighter, mostly do to the freeze-dried food, dried fruit and granola bars consumed along the trail and in camp. Backpackers pledge to "Leave No Trace;" that is, to carry out everything they carried in. And that means packaging waste.

I hate packaging waste.

It's amazing how much packaging waste one person goes through in 38 miles. You don't notice it until you're carrying four-day old remnants of rehydrated fettuccini alfredo around. No matter how clean you try to get it in the local watering hole – that's lake, stream or pond for you city-slickers – the smell doesn't go away.

So this year I broke the pledge and burned my packaging waste. I know you zero-wasters are cringing right now, but for me, it was the right decision. The last thing I wanted in bear country was rotting chicken salad in my pack.

When you're walking through 8-foot-tall swamp grass and you come upon a spot along a creek where that grass is all matted down in giant sleeping bear outlines and then spot bear and wolf tracks in the mud, you don't second-guess your decision to burn that waste.

In fact, you thank God you didn't bring it along, as you huff-and-puff up yet another hill on the double-quick with your head on a swivel, hoping the next poor sap to come down the trail doesn't find your mangled, half-eaten body.

So sue me, greenie-meanies.

At least I'm alive to tell the story.

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