Eastern Yoop Dirtbag Chronicles: Into the Not Knowing

Last morning of fieldwork in the Cook County Forest Preserves

A little less than a month ago, I had this overwhelming urge to go sit on top of a mountain. As mountains aren't particularly easy to come by in Chicago, I traveled east, to the Whites--to be exact, Madison Hut. Somewhere in transit between the parking lot (in the valley) and the hut (for all practical purposes, at the summit), Lily and I stopped for a scenery appreciation. As it turns out, there's this remarkable relationship between an increase in altitude and a corresponding increase in the number and duration of proper scenery appreciations. We lingered, paying our due diligence to the beauty of early fall in the Presidential Range (and, speaking personally, to the repercussions of devoting an ample portion of my food pyramid to fried macaroni and cheese), and it struck me how there are some things--a lot of things, actually--that are better off not known.  For example, at that instant, I did not know and had no desire for enlightenment to: the remaining distance between me and Madison Hut; the total elevation gain; the weight of my pack. 

This thought was timely. Then, I was on the cusp of entering a space that is a great philosophical not knowing. I moved to Chicago in April 2017, largely to be closer to family as my mom neared the end of a terminal illness. She passed just before Christmas, but, determined to pay off my student loans before leaving such fertile financial grounds, I stayed in the city for another ten months. I met my goal, perhaps at the cost of starving my creativity, but I won't lament this. Being debt-free is pretty fucking fantastic.

Now that I am in a space that leaves time for more than mere survival, I've felt significant angst as I ponder re-entering the arenas I've withdrawn from for what feels like so long. To face this--and to cultivate my heart--this morning, I'm taking my truck and my solo canoe (and Tripp too, who is taking his truck and solo canoe), to the eastern U.P. until foul weather or rifle season drives us back south.

There, we're going to take the time to just be, to indulge in at least a month of daily Sabbaths. We don't have a firm plan, route, or goals, even. It's going to be a time of reading by campfires, of writing postcards to far-flung friends, of spending days doing nothing but panning Lake Superior with my spotting scope. There is bottomless boozy coffee to drink, new rivers to paddle, pasta passouts to be had. It's going to be decadent, and we need it. We deserve it. 

And--though this blog and I have been very off-and-on throughout the last couple years, on those days when we find ourselves at Newberry Library, I'm going to post something here. It may not be more than a summary of all the ways we've incorporated refried beans and lard into our day-to-day life, but it will be writing, after spending what feels like a very long time not writing. If nothing else, it will serve as good practice for when fall edges into winter and I make good on my commitment to sit down and The Phalarope Chapters for publication.

polish

It's exciting, this not knowing.