Wilderness plans don't always pan out. Sometimes the weather takes a turn, sometimes schedules don't work out. And, sometimes, things just go awry in unexpected and undignified, foolish ways.
On a recent, almost fully bluely moonlit night, I took to the Willow Creek trail in Big Sur's Silver Peak Wilderness, already anticipating what glorious photos I might capture of the redwooded watershed. I awoke to find my film camera malfunctioning, whirring helplessly, mysteriously and irreparably kaput. Not only this, but my wallet was suddenly gone, fallen who knows where from a pair of too raggedy pants. This attempt to relieve myself of any sense of worldly responsibility and return triumphantly cleansed had instead provided me with a headful of stress.
It's the funny thing about wilderness explorations, and we fools who write about them. We leave city life to refill our well, to readjust our minds. But on our return, we're tempted to gloat. To go out is to earn the merit badges of solitude and strength. We hit the trail with the aim to return as Buddha, witness to holy Nothingness, and have desktop-ready photos to prove it. We recommend solitude for everyone only insofar that we may still stake a claim in it, without anyone else's interference upon our campsite or treasured trail. And for all our reverence of the mystery of nature, there is perhaps in some of us a note of entitlement to the luxury of allotted natural bliss we feel we ought to receive, or even deserve, without sacrifice.