DIKKON EBERHART
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my old backpack

12/14/2018

14 Comments

 
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​Dikkon Eberhart

When I was a young seminarian, I enjoyed walking in the California and Oregon coastal hills and planning more substantial hikes—even expeditions—in my imagination.  Expedition planning was fun because it allowed me to pour over topo maps and to trace each elevation change I would later experience but this time with my fingertip.  It was also fun because it justified time spent in hiking equipment stores where I critiqued technical improvements in backpacks and other gear. 

When money was available (even when it was not quite available), the necessities of my pending expedition rationalized a purchase—for example, the purchase of one of those new Trailwise expedition packs from the shop on lower University Avenue in Berkeley, above San Pablo.  That’s where I once saw Colin Fletcher, the famous walking guru—he of The Thousand Mile Summer and The Man Who Walked Through Time—but I was shy to stand close while he chatted with the staff. 
 
 
I had my own Trailwise pack, too, but I was not yet ready for the whole Pacific Crest Trail between Canada and Mexico—even my imagination was daunted by its 2,653 miles.  But I was ready for a trial run.  I focused on the Marble Mountains of NW Oregon.  I packed and re-packed my gear, weighing it with Jesuitical precision, stripping as many ounces of useless weight as I could. 

Here’s a Fletcher suggestion for all of you out there now preparing for your next expedition—cut off half the handle of your toothbrush.  Three ounces can be saved that way!

Of course, the real weight problem in my expedition pack was books.  Some gurus suggested tearing signatures out of bound books and carrying only those. But I couldn’t deface books that way.  What I needed to read was Paul Tillich’s Systematic Theology.  That was a weighty tome, even in paperback, but I found that when I jettisoned two of my four pairs of socks, my Bowie knife, my tube of tent-repair cement, and most of my gorp, I could keep Tillich and still balance out at less than forty-five pounds for a two-week hike.    
 
Off I went! 
 


Four days in, my Trailwise backpack and I were faced with a choice of direction.  That morning, we could climb the rest of the ridge I had slept halfway up, top it, cut down its other side and end up by the stream I wanted to climb to the source of, or we could go all the way around the ridge on a flatter but longer path and still come to the stream.  The first way would take about two hours, the second half a day. 

My pack’s weight was down—I’d eaten the rest of my gorp, some of my granola, two of my freeze-dried meals (not worth carrying anyway), three of my oranges, a hunk of the cheese, and we were only carrying a half liter of water now instead of two liters—so I figured the steepness of the quicker course would not be a trouble. 

We went up and over.

Having topped the ridge, my backpack and I were descending happily through a sunny deciduous forest.  My intellect was fine tuned to a high seminarian degree—we theologians delight in what the medieval period called The Queen of All Sciences, that is, our study of the ways, means, and beneficence of God. 

I had Tillich on my mind, my staff in my hand, and the sun at my back. I hadn’t seen another hiker during two days.  This was my world—and surely the Pacific Crest Trail was next—mine for the taking. 

I rounded an outcrop and a vast brown hairy object exploded upward from eight feet before me, emitted a bellow, stared at me during a frozen moment through its eyes taller than I was, turned and galloped away down the trail ahead, and then crashed a few steps into the bracken at its side—and utter silence reigned.  That was the trail along which I needed to go. 

Never had I encountered a wild and enormous brown bear this close—and I’d swapped out my Bowie knife for Tillich!
 
 


Since I’m writing this some fifty years later, you can guess that the bear didn’t eat me.  However, I can still remember the tension I felt as I continued down that trail.  I clung to the notion that the bear might be scareder than I was.  I certainly hoped so. 

I'd dug out food from my backpack—do bears like eating Oreos and bacon bits better than theologians?—and I had them ready to fling to him.  My backpack was unbelted and loose over one shoulder, ready to drop.  I scoped trees near where I thought the bear had left the trail and was hiding there in wait for me, and I mentally readied my muscles for flight response and swift tree climbing. 

Then I decided to sing.

Nobody likes to hear me sing, but the bear probably didn’t know that and might not even complain, but I wanted to give him no excuse to think I was creeping up on him. 
 
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
To see what he could see.
 
Step by step I was getting closer to where I could see he had crashed off the trail.  Big clods of earth thrown aside by his paws; broken bracken.  Silence—except me with my loud, untuneful song. 
 
Maybe this wasn’t even a song, maybe a nursery rhyme—but it didn’t matter: I was loud!
 
He was right there!  He was watching me!  Right now, he’s watching me!
 
I was past him.
 
 
 
This was the biggest adventure my Trailwise backpack had with me.  We went on other hikes together, too, but, over time, my emphasis became carrying less weight rather than more, and as a result my backpack got left behind sometimes when I used a smaller rucksack instead. 
 
Also, my lust after expeditions declined—four nights on a ledge above Big Sur with no people, a couple of paperback mysteries, a skillet, and two pounds of bacon really was better than Canada to Mexico on sore feet, however much Colin Fletcher raved about it. 
 


My backpack’s biggest adventure, though (after the bear encounter), was not with me at all.  My sister-in-law Malya was going off to India for an open-ended rambling tour of exotic terrain and temples, and she needed a way to carry along a few extra rupees, some grains of rice, and maybe a head scarf or two.  Might she borrow my big backpack? 
 
I asked my backpack, who was confined to the back of the closet.  What he said to me was, “When’s the next time you’re going to take me to the Himalayas?”  I conceded not soon, so off he went with my dear Malya, and they had a magnificent experience among the foothills of the most elevated mountain chain on earth. 
 
 
 

Don’t give up on your friends, that’s what I say.  You may not see them often.  They might be tucked away at the back of your garage with the four-man tent and the minus-ten mummy bags, but they are there for you when you need them. 
 
Like last Sunday.
 
In the Blue Ridge, we had a big snowstorm.  More than a foot fell around our house.  It was the first snow of the year, and it was beautiful.  Our grandchildren loved it.  I loved it. 
 
We live about a quarter mile from a big road which is kept clear by the county during snowstorms.  However, the county does not clear secondary roads, such as ours very quickly.  Our house is uphill from the major road. 
 
Our son Sam had a work shift Sunday.  During the storm, I was able to drive him down to his grocery store.  However, when I drove home, for the first time since we moved here, I was unable to get back up the hill to our house through snow.  
 
Over the phone, my wife and I decided I would go back to the store and ask to have Sam leave his shift so I could drive him back to our part of town during daylight, park the car somewhere safe, and then walk home.  Sam is a good solid worker, and the store was generous to allow him to leave his shift.  He and I parked about a mile from home and trudged through the stormy evening. 
 
However, there were still about fifty pounds of groceries left overnight in the car. 
 
 
 
My old friend, Mr. Backpack!  Yay!  He was ready to help me out. 
 
Next morning, I found that we’re both a little clumsier than we were fifty years ago.  His swivel parts tend to bind instead of swinging smoothly.  Some of his waterproofing is flaking off.  My hips take the weight his belt directs to them, instead of to my back, with less joy than was the case.  His belt buckle was set for a smaller waist than mine has become. 
 
But I packed him full and skillfully managed to keep the grocery weight balanced.  He was patient as I propped him on something and managed to get his straps adjusted over my shoulders.  I stepped a half step forward and felt competent as his weight settled familiarly onto my shoulders. 
 
Pacific Crest Trail, here we come--NO!
 
But we did get home—uphill—with food for the family. 
 
We’ve had a nice long life, each of us, he and I—adventures both of challenge and of grace.  I hope you have, too, you and your symbols of daring. 
 
 
 


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14 Comments
Malya Alperin
12/15/2018 02:52:09 pm

Dikkon,

I loved this story!

Malya

Reply
Dikkon
12/15/2018 03:52:52 pm

Dear Malya,

Both your backpack friend and I are grateful for your response!

He remembers your Himalayan trip fondly. I'm glad you were his transport for a while, but thanks for giving him back. I needed him!

Love, Dikkon

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Betsy rowland
12/15/2018 05:12:31 pm

Dikkon. Great story. I too encountered a brown bear who fell in love with our hot tub next to the Wood River in Ketchum, Idaho.
Love your word—-Jesuitical

Betsy

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Dikkon
12/15/2018 08:56:18 pm

Thanks, Betsy.

It's wonderful to my delight in our friendship when, so frequently, I hear from you about some other parallelism between our earlier lives--our BEARS!

Thank you for liking "Jesuitical," and thank you again for earlier giving me LISTEN and SILENT...exactly the same letters, different order, the one commands the other, and even demands the other, to be effective. I hope I can more usefully respond to that demand in future.

Bless you,

Dikkon

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Bill Hunter
12/15/2018 05:30:56 pm

Dikkon, I'm working on a rewrite of my book and you provided a welcome break. I'll send you a copy of my old Army boots if it can be found. Manys the day and night they experienced pain, adulation, exhaustion, and finally, partial retirement. They're still in the closet, ready when I am.
Thanks,
Bill Hunter

Reply
Dikkon
12/18/2018 09:40:14 pm

Bill, I'm glad to have provided you with a break! Sometimes breaks are the best part of re-working a manuscript.

And I didn't know I should thank you for your service, so I do.

Dikkon

Reply
floyd samons link
12/16/2018 03:34:08 pm

This was great! So cool that you hung onto your back pack for all those years.

It's a gift from God to recall our past; the good, the bad, and the hiking!

Next time I clean the garage I might be less apt to toss old things that I haven't used in decades...

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Dikkon
12/18/2018 09:45:56 pm

Hi Floyd!

It might be cool that I've kept all that camping and hiking gear, but the down side is that it's a cluttering trouble--especially when I want to know where PRECISELY something is that I KNOW we moved with us from Maine to Virginia, and my wife wants me to find.

Ah, well. Life gets more interesting as we move along through it...the challenges keep us pressing hard which ultimately is what the Lord wants from us, as I think it. He wants us to keep striving.

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Betty Draper` link
12/16/2018 09:17:53 pm

My daughter has her back pack from Bolivia, I think her daughter has used it some, she is a keeper like her Daddy. They both have that mentality, "I might need it someday". Sad to say, I am not a keeper of much and have passed that on to my son. We both throw things out if it has not been used for a while, like over a year or two.


I love to hike but I am down to stroll walking. Since we travel a lot in our ministry we see some beautiful places and once in a while Ace will take a short hike but I prefer to sit on a rock and gaze at the sights. Before I had my heart surgery we were in Oregon , at Glazier Lake and I could hardly breathe let alone even stroll due to my bad knee. Ace kept telling me, come on, the car is only about 5 minutes a way. With what little breathe I had, I said with a tight smile, then go get it and pick me up. I am praying this holiday when my daughter and family get here I can walk to the cross with them. It's near Reagan Library and a little hike they say. I made it half way about six months after my heart and knee surgery. Maybe I can get one of the men to carry me up half way so I can walk the other half. (only kidding)


We have lived in some beautiful places and God has given us some wild life experiences, never a bear but a few I do not want to do again. the first time I went swimming in Papua New Guinea I noticed a tiny black striped snake. I ask a young man walking by, what is that snake? Only the most poisonous snake in the ocean he said. But, and this part is very important for it kept me going back to the ocean to learn to snorkel. He replied, it has the smallest mouth of any snake so he would have to probably bite you in a place where the skin was not thick. Thank God, all my skin is thick with lots of fat which helped me float away from it easy. Never heard of anyone getting bitten while we lived there. I was and never will be brave enough to snorkel far away from shore or alone. Every beauty of this earth needs people who can sit and just look at it. That's me.

Good writing for you see the memories it brought out of me.


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Dikkon
12/18/2018 09:50:39 pm

Wonderful memoirs is what they are. Let's correspond via email now and then. I'd like to know more about your travels and your ministry. I'm happy to have you as a reader, Betty.

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Peter Cutler link
12/18/2018 11:40:54 am

Good story. My encounters with bears have been limited to our native specimens here in Maine and since they happened to be during hunting season I was moving very slowly and carefully and saw the bear without it being aware of me. Still, quite a thrill (no, I don't hunt bears nor do they generally bother me). Many of my "outdoor experiences" were connected to 20 years in the Army and yes, careful planning plays a great part even when you can at times depend on limited resupply. I learned the hard way that a good knife can be an essential tool - and I always had some sort of book with me. Even under occasionally rather trying conditions I have been privileged to observe some of the wonders of nature which was a real plus.

At my age, memories are generally my most frequent connections to the wonders of nature but I still can enjoy traveling with my wife in the highlands of Scotland or the different panoramas of California, St. Thomas, Missouri and other locations. We are indeed blessed to still be able to explore even if only for a brief time.

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Dikkon
12/18/2018 10:08:42 pm

Hi, Pete--

Thanks for your reflections here--and I'll tell you I never went on a hike even of an afternoon's duration again without a good knife on my belt.

Here's another story. Maybe I'll work this up for a post sometime, but I'll give you a hint now. I mentioned a ledge above Big Sur. I loved that spot. I was high enough to watch the fog roll in below me each morning and then roll back out again each afternoon, like a tide above which I lolled. The fresh water was about 600 below down a crooked exposed switch-back of shale and scree and then across a long meadow and into the woods. Every two days I went down to fill my bottles.

Having seen no person for four days, I scarcely wore anything for the water trip the second time except boots. As I walked into the meadow, immediately a vast and formerly unseen cloud of monarch butterflies rose from the grass, fluttering up to a height of about five feet. They filled the entirety of the meadow. Their thickness was such that I felt their wings fluttering against me--thousands surrounded me. Enchanted, I swam through the butterflies all the way the woods, which I entered to get to the stream for my water.

I realized that, had I been entirely naked, and had I come across another hiker, my modesty would have been completely protected by this cloud!

What a moment that was--almost magical.

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Maggie Rowe
12/27/2018 03:58:46 pm

Symbols of daring...wondering what mine are? So appreciate your writing, Dikkon.

Reply
Dikkon
12/27/2018 05:22:28 pm

Thanks, Maggie--

Let's each of us keep at the writing habit, shall we? We'll carry it along. Maybe THAT'S a symbol of daring!

Reply



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