Note: The following is based on my 04-11-2015 journal entry from our Wabash River to the Gulf of Mexico (source-to-sea) kayak trip.
John has criteria for a campsite, one of which affects the ease of approaching the bank despite the flow of the water—an eddy. An eddy provides a respite from the current, allowing for an easier approach and landfall.
This afternoon John located one of these gems, which formed a small lagoon parallel to the river between the towns of Lagro and Wabash.
After landing, we scouted for the best place to pitch our tent. We found a flat spot that was somewhat clear, but the path leading from our kayaks to the tent was littered with downed branches and limbs from storms and driftwood. After systematically eliminating the major tripping and clothing-snagging hazards, I started carrying dry bags from our kayaks, Work and Pray, to our camping spot.
As I carried my first load, I noticed John was relocating some of what I had just removed. I asked, “What are you doing?”
John proudly declared that he was constructing a “road” for us to walk on safely. He continued to build a shoulder out of sticks to guide our way. It worked.
When setting up camp, one of John’s first duties is to find two trees or big bushes to attach our clothesline. Yesterday, we did laundry at Huntington, and a few pieces weren’t dry, some of which were John’s cotton underwear. John has decided bringing cotton underwear was a bad idea for a river trip—they take forever to dry. We avoided bringing other items made of cotton but didn’t consider the material of John’s underwear. With only three pairs, fast drying is a must. John, frustrated with the slow-drying cotton underwear, is threatening to burn them and go commando. Yikes!
Everything in its place and settled into our home for the night, we hit a technology glitch. (The more you have, the more things that can go wrong.) John was charging the phone with the solar panel; but when he checked on the status, he discovered the phone wasn’t charging—the charge percentage of the battery had actually decreased. Upon further investigation he decided the phone cord had failed. John called my son, asking him to retrieve a cord at our house and take it to our friends, who are coming to see us at Wabash, Indiana, tomorrow. John hung up and turned off the phone to save battery life.
Later, he checked his phone and saw a picture from my son. “Is this what you want?” Unfortunately, it was an iPad, not iPhone, cord. Now what?
Powering off the phone, we contemplated our dilemma. Perhaps we could buy a cord in Wabash. The problem is we are not familiar with the area; so do not know which stores are within walking distance from the river. John started to check for possible phone cord carriers, then quickly turned off his phone and put it in his pocket.
I asked, “What did you find out?”
“I didn’t. I don’t want to waste the battery in case we have an emergency later.” Not finding the answer was hard for John. His immediate reaction to any unknown is to pick up his phone and Google it. He can’t stand to live in the world that exists between not knowing and knowing for more than a few minutes (maybe seconds). One time, when we were sitting in a coffee house in Japan enjoying a romantic cup of coffee and sharing a dessert, I ate almost the entire dessert alone while he investigated—get this—JAPANESE TOILETS.
Later this evening, John turned on the phone long enough to read another text from my son stating he drove his own phone cord to our friends. What a great son!
Even as we are trying to live a simple life, technology has us in its grasp! Over the past year, as we planned our gear list, we determined certain technology (an iPhone to check the radar for approaching storms and in case of an emergency) as needs and not wants. Historically, people taking wilderness canoe/kayak trips did so without modern technology, so why do we now consider these pieces of technology needs? The definition of need and want in the wilderness is shaped by our daily life in civilization. I wonder if our experiences on this trip will alter our definitions when we return to civilization. How will we define “need” in August?
Here’s the Thing: How often do I blur the line between need and want based on how frequently I use an item? Many of these items didn’t even exist 30 years ago—i.e., a cell phone. Is easy access to knowledge a want or a need? How much would I have if I had the courage to let go of all my wants? How much time and money would I save? Is the definition of a want or need fluid, changing as our situation in life changes? Even as our needs for a campsite changed over the course of our trip, our definitions change with each season of life. Childhood. Adulthood. Parenthood. Empty nest. Midlife. Senior citizen. Each situation changes our perspective. So, is non-cotton underwear when living on the river a want or a need? You decide.
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — LaNae Abnet, Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Kathy Schwartz, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
