Backcountry In My Bones

Day 169: Backcountry is in my bones, in my blood, in my soul. When I was still in my single-digit years, my favorite uncle worked as a forest ranger in the same district where I served some twenty years later. Already a creature of the woods, I nagged him until he obtained special permission for me to stay with him at his duty station. He suspected the long, steep hike would be more than a young girl could manage, but every time he shed his pack and sat down to rest, I was running ahead on the trail to see what was around the next bend.

Staying in the cabin was delightful, sharing meals of griddle-cooked pancakes with the local bear, going fishing in the Park rowboat stashed at the shelter by the lake, exploring the meadows and creeks, and discovering wildflowers the likes of which I'd never seen. The adventure was what mattered, never mind the mosquitoes. At night, he'd read stories aloud from "Amazing Science Fiction" and when the spooky tales were done, I'd watch with delicious fright the lingering blue glow of the kersone lamp as it flickered out of existence.

During the ten days I was with him there, we took many short hikes. While out on a water-getting trip, I found the bone. Convinced that it was a Tyrannosaurus Rex's finger joint, I wanted to take it home for my collection of fossils. Gus said no. It was too heavy, he claimed, for me to lug out in my pack despite the fact that I'd carried 35 pounds in. He took it from me and laid it beside the cabin porch.

When we began packing to leave, he noticed that the bone was gone from its spot. Sure enough, he found it atop the gear in my backpack. After several unsuccessful attempts to prevent me from taking it home, he took it and hid it underneath the cabin and supposedly without my knowledge. I knew I had one last chance, so I bided my time.

Right before we started the nine-mile hike back to our starting point, I made one last trip to the privy and while he was off paying a similar visit to a tree, I buried the bone deeply beneath my clothing and other items. He was none the wiser until we got back to my house, at which point I received the expected lecture but was allowed to keep my prize.

That was over fifty years ago. The bone (elk thigh) is perhaps my most prized possession. It signifies many things, from a life choice and my destiny to the dogged determination which has so often carried me into both success and trouble over the decades. It holds the memories of a man dear to me, and of a place I cherish even now. It is fitting that it is shown here with Gus' 1928 map and my own compass, a bridge between present and past.