First Light.
That gentle time in the wilderness when stars still fill the
waning night sky and galaxies paint broad whitish slashes through the
heavens. The eastern horizon is just beginning
to pale from black to gray while the night’s creatures are rushing to nests,
burrows, cracks, and dens and the day’s replacements remain securely enfolded in
sleep.
Eyes open coming into focus after grit is wiped from moist
corners. Legs, arms, and back are
stretched to ease the stiffness of ground, cold, and yesterday’s exertions. Chill, dark, slightly ominous draping of
trees and brush, hill and rock surround each warm, comforting, cocoon. Contesting desires delay venturing forth from
sleeping bag into the coming dawn.
One by one, arms reach forth, drawing cold clothing into
spare spaces to be gently warmed before donning. The first person up stirs the surviving coals
and kindles the beginnings of the breakfast fire. The second riser heads to the food cache,
untying the rope that holds sacks high, above small noses and large paws. Once lowered and carried to the fire, the
morning’s meal is removed, organized, and laid on the kitchen rock; the
remaining food is left bagged, to be individually collected as the others pack.
The first rustling of the day is heard in camp. Individually as breakfast is prepared, each youth
gathers, rolls, collects, organizes, and packs.
They make furtive trips to the fire, to warm chilled hands, to the food
sack to collect their lunches and share of the patrol’s food, and back to
continue preparation for the day’s march.
The older, more practiced youth finish first and gather
around the fire to pull out maps, review the planned route, identify likely lunch
stops and emergency plans.
The boys and girls gather for a hurried breakfast of hot
cereal, dried fruit, warm drink, and laughter.
Cups are rinsed, extra fruit is tucked in pockets, pots are washed and
dried, and the fire is drowned under a flood of stale liquid poured from
individual water bottles and canteens.
A quick stroll to the lake, nearby stream or snowfield and bottles,
canteens, and bota bags are refilled and dosed for purification. A few fish rise in the early morning grasping
at insects that dot the glassy, mirrored lake, leaving expanding circular
ripples in the surface serenity. An
early Osprey tucks wings into a streamlined dive chasing breakfast into the
deeps.
Long pants are shed in favor of shorts, jackets are tucked
into flaps, feet are checked for tenderness or wounds, and boots are laced
tight as the birds of the forest begin for flit from tree to tree under the
first colored edges of dawn’s full glow.
The group lines up at one end of camp, walking closely in a broad line
they search the ground for any scrap of paper, piece of plastic, or man-made object
lying half hidden in the duff and dirt.
Straining weight up off of the ground, and onto shoulders,
hips, backs, and thighs. Packs settled
high, or low, or in between as each prefers.
A groan here and there, a joke tossed into the clearing, as each one shifts
and settles, tightens and cinches.
The sky is fully alight, but the sun has yet to rise above
the horizon when the point rolls into the familiar early morning stride and
heads up out of the campsite, climbing slightly to reach the trail and one by
one the remaining individuals fall into line behind.
As drag leaves camp, if they choose to stop and turn, they
will be just in time to see all of the little creatures dash out of hiding and
scurry back and forth seeking anything that was inadvertently left behind.
And so, as another day begins, the miles stretch out before
us, our belongings are on our backs, the world is at our feet and the yards
begin to fall slowly behind.
© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved
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