Give and receive: the journey

What should have been a 13 mile day turned into 18 miles. A mishap caused by a terrible night’s sleep led me to leave camp without checking that I was wearing sunglasses. My sweet, sweet sunglasses, the only thing protecting my eyes from the oppressive rays radiating from the Florida sun.

So begins the morning of the 21st, where I enjoy views of palm meadows and oak hammocks at three different times as I make my way from the Charles H. Bronson State Forest to Christmas via the Orlando Wetlands.

I walk 2.7 miles from Joshua Creek Camp to Christmas Creek before realizing my sunglasses are missing from my backpack. I drop my backpack on the bright blue-painted bench that offers visitors a place to rest by the stream. I, however, do not rest. I panic. I search through my backpack, checking every pocket and storage bag. I check and recheck the top storage compartment on my Deuter, sure I just lost it. Unfortunately, my sunglasses are nowhere to be found.

I pause to consider my next step. Should I walk the 2.7 miles back to the campsite where I’m sure I left them on the picnic table? Do I forget about the $40 pair of glasses and continue until Christmas, saving myself an extra 5.4 miles a day?

Contemplating my options, I sit on the bench and look out into the forest. He called me all kinds of names for not checking the camp before leaving. I despise myself for my foolishness in a way that only a schoolyard bully would. When my pity party ends, I realize I have no choice: I must return from where I came from to retrieve my sunglasses. Ultimately, it is LNT’s ethos that guides me back to Camp Joshua Creek.

The last 250 miles have shown me how bad we have been to the environment, despite our best efforts. This is the paradox of the desert. Because of its beauty and appeal, nature attracts the curiosities of humanity, curiosities that threaten the allure of nature. We entered the forest as strangers, inviting ourselves into a space that existed long before us. Very often we visit this strange world to recover something that has been stolen from us by skyscrapers and power lines. And we demand so much from nature (clarity, peace, tranquility, entertainment, sustenance) while giving so little in return.

Nature, on the contrary, must bear witness to our importunities. So when we enter the vastness of the outdoors, we remind nature of its mortality. We deplete water from deep-flowing streams from deep within the Earth’s core. We stalk and kill life that simply wants to exist, even coexist. We destroy the soil that nourishes all living things, including ourselves.

As I walk back to camp looking for my sunglasses, I am forced to think about my effect on the environment. I hopscotch along a path dug by pigs. Where the trees have expired, I must climb their trunks. Walkways made from 2×4 wood planks help me cross streams, keeping me from disturbing the minnows under my feet. As I cross the bridge, I think about how angry my mother would be if I broke into her house, knocked down her walls, and repurposed the plaster into a freestanding room divider. The absurdity of it all is too much, but here I am.

When I get to camp, I see my sunglasses under the picnic table. I figure in my rush to get back on the trail this morning, they must have fallen out of my backpack and slipped off the table. I grab them and return them to their house, placing them on my face. After resting and mentally preparing myself, I begin to cross the same terrain for the third time in as many hours.

Now that the sun is fully out, I’m starting to see things on the road that I didn’t notice on my first two trips. Guilt electrifies my skin and I get angry at myself for my self-centeredness. The first time I hiked this segment of the trail, I looked at my phone and read my itinerary and plan for the day. The second time I hiked this segment of the trail, I was bothered by the tickling of palm fronds on my shins and ankles.

Now, on my third time hiking this segment of the trail, I recognize the ecotone. A meadow of palm trees cradled by a pine hammock. Long pine trees rise above the palm trees for protection. On the ground, the clumps of bay grass are protected from the glare of the sun by the leaves of the palm trees. I consider the coexistence of the three, marveling at their harmonious spirit.

Palm meadow, pine forest and grassy path

From there I enter the shade of the pine trees. But this time I realize that I am not simply among the pines. Instead, I notice the palm trees. They intersect, weaving their trunks as on a loom. They mix. They dance. I don’t see them fighting for space. Rather, pines and palm trees share the ground below. And when there is no more space on the ground, they seem to move laterally, exploring the spaces under the sky.

Palm trees and pine trees dancing together.

I’m looking at these spaces under the sky when my eyes catch something bright. When you’ve been staring at earthy tones of greens and browns for weeks, color in nature is easy to notice. A bright orange shines against the blue sky like a star seen in daylight. Directly above me on the road are oranges! Dozens of yellowish-red bulbs hang delicately above my head. I look towards the base of the tree, looking for a fallen star. Two oranges shine towards me.

Nature’s offers

I recognize that these oranges could be the source of life for something else in the forest. My presence in the forest is a privileged choice. That’s why I leave one orange, but accept the other as an offering from nature. I pocket the smaller of the two oranges and continue down the path, hoping that maybe – just maybe – my steps haven’t damaged this house too much.

This website contains affiliate links, which means The Trek may receive a percentage of any products or services you purchase using links in articles or advertisements. The buyer pays the same price they would otherwise pay, and their purchase helps support The Trek’s ongoing goal of bringing you quality backpacking information and advice. Thank you for your support!

For more information, visit the About page of this site.