Forum: On The Wild Place trail memories come with each mile

By Cory Armstrong-Hoss / Herald Forum

It’s 1999, I’m 20 years old and I’m holding a gallon-sized ziplock bag full of the dusty brown husks of dehydrated pinto beans.

We’re picking up supplies from the Y camp outfitter for our backpacking trip to the coast: rice, tortillas, fuel, tarps, stoves. We drive six hours, park near the ranger station, then prep our 12- and 13-year-old charges: adjust the weight in their backpacks, tighten waist straps, loosen shoulder straps. We fill up bottles with the last filtered water we’ll drink for three days, cross the bridge and hike into the rainforest.

In the middle of a two-week camp session, this adventure marks the first backpacking trip for most of these kids. We play games and sing on the trail — 20 questions, Boom-Chick-A-Boom — to take our campers’ minds off their feet, hot and sweaty in wool socks; the straps digging into their shoulders; the foreign feeling of a full pack, throwing them off balance when they step over roots or down stairs.

We pick a campsite with a rope swing, set down our packs, and walk out onto the woods, over logs bleached white by the sun. We step off onto a wide beach at the end of the continent, where the land ends and spills into the sea.

We climb up the big rock that sits at the point of two converging coves. I take pictures of our campers with a yellow, disposable Kodak camera as the sun dips below the horizon.

Fifteen years later, now 35, I want to go fast and light, but my world is heavy with obligation. My gear lists have turned domestic: stroller, diaper bag, snacks. I yearn for something quick and easy. Something mine.

I reach my brother and my mom, tell them I used to lead trips to a place on the coast. What do you think about a backpacking trip? I tell them I want to go back, to show our oldest kids how to camp in the backcountry. To breathe the salt-thick air that had once reminded me of how simple things could be.

For that summer I plan everything: the permit, meals, and water filter, the stove and cookset. We set off: my mom, my brother and his first born — then five-years-old — and six-year-old Cole and me, with breaks on the trail for water and trail mix, and to watch a deer graze in a meadow of tall grass and ancient snags.

At night we scramble up the same massive rock I did 15 years before, the top edged with wind-whipped tufts of grass. I take pictures with my phone this time. My brother takes one of Cole and me at the edge of the world.

Ten more summers pass.

I am 46, and I measure out pancake mix and hot cocoa into gallon bags for our 11th annual trip. I need to order more dehydrated beans, this time for fifteen people: siblings, spouses, eight grandchildren, and my own parents.

I convene my family to make sure backpacks, rain gear and boots still fit. CeCe wants to hike in her baby blue Crocs: “I’ll put them in Sports Mode, Dad.”

This trip is still mine to lead, but now it belongs to all of us. The kids will set up tents, filter water, start the stoves, and boil water for pasta. 17-year-old Cole, ever-patient with pancakes, might slowly rotate the pan in circles over the flame, so the center doesn’t get burnt while the edges remain raw. Dishes aren’t easy — think syrup, spaghetti sauce or refried beans burned to bottom of a pot — but once they begin, the kids get lost in talking and their task.

Days bring fort building, rope swinging, crab hunting, tide-pooling and braving the ocean’s waters. The kids dive into oncoming waves and pop up on the other side, yell that we’re soft because we stand sentinel at water’s edge, and can’t take the cold sea the way we used to.

My parents gave me the gift of loving the woods, of always exploring, and they stay at a cabin near the trailhead, acting as trip support: packing in fresh water and joy, and packing out our trash and empty bear canisters.

I still yearn to go fast and light, to take everything I need on my back, cut out the weight of heavy things. But more than that, I want to be with these people in the wild, to show the young ones a stripped down life, the difference between need and want.

This summer we’ll watch for the black bear and her cubs, climb the big rock again, and search for one of the best rope swings: an old spherical buoy swinging from thick, faded rope. I might think about all the kids I’ve guided to this spot. I might wonder how many more summers my parents and Cole will make this trip with us, and hope they always do.

And I’ll take photos again, grateful for all my memories from this wild place.

Cory Armstrong-Hoss lives in Everett with his wife and three kids. His kids have played nine different sports. He’s a lifelong athlete, and he’s served as a coach, ref, and youth sports administrator. Find him at substack.com/@atahossforwords.