grandpa – Starshine Roshell

Dragged Backpacking with Outdoorsy Old Men

The trees disappear above 11,000 feet. The bugs stop buzzing, birds stop chirping, and the day hikers — those normal folks out for a nice stroll, jean-clad and accompanied by a toddler or dog — vanish. All I hear is the wind blowing, stirring the rough gravel that replaces dirt at that elevation. That, and the deafening sound of the voice in my head: Why, Stone? Just … why?

This was my experience backpacking through the Sierras with my relentlessly outdoorsy grandpa, my dad, and their friends. They’ve been backpacking annually for four decades, but this was my first time venturing into the wilderness with only my sleeping bag, tent, and however much trail mix I could stuff in my pockets.

This backpacking brigade certainly had a few characters. First: my grandpa. A stark traditionalist and the second coming of John Muir, he loves the outdoors almost as much as he loves eating wheat bran for breakfast and talking stocks. Next: my father. He had just dyed his hair purple for one of his band’s rock shows and looked like he was climbing up the mountain to sell someone crack. Then there was Bill. A 75-year-old backpacking cyborg, Bill would only stop to eat a cashew or two before returning to his blistering pace.

Every summer the kids go spend a week at Grandpa’s. It’s good for them: They learn to fish and appreciate Abbott and Costello. It’s good for Grandpa, too: He gets someone to share his mud pie and mow his lawn.

But mostly, it’s good for my husband and me. We take full advantage of our offspring’s absence by vowing to pursue distinctly adult pleasures, avoiding Go-GURT and playground sand at all costs.

We go out at night and stay out later than we need to — later than we even want to — just to wallow in the freaky freedom of not having to check in with a sitter. Or we stay home, eat Brie for dinner, and watch R-rated movies at full volume, ecstatic in the certainty that no one will stumble in saying, “Mommy, that prison rape scene woke me up… ” We plan marathon sessions of wild monkey sex but never get around to them because, frankly, our mojo has so long been attuned to the family schedule that without the threat of being walked in on, the deed loses some urgency.

But it’s okay. Because by about the third day, we realize — with appropriate shame — that what we want most is not to savor the privileges of adulthood; it’s to behave like infants.

Tag: grandpa

Surviving the Sierras

Dragged Backpacking with Outdoorsy Old Men

I Ain't No Supermodel