October 10, 2007

Portaging the China Cabinet

2007 1528 page17 cap remember sitting on a stone by the water, a loon calling out wildly. It was early morning; the sky was pink and the mist rose thickly from the water. Behind me my father sorted through our gear, preparing to boil water. To canoe in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness is to be plunged into beauty. The park stretches over 1.3 million acres and includes more than 1,200 lakes. One might see moose, bears, otters, lynx, and northern flying squirrels. My father and I encountered white-tailed deer, beavers, bald eagles, a startled mink, and swarms of mosquitoes. Each day we dipped our paddles into clear water and hugged a tree-lined shore.
 
But there is another story: portaging.
 
Between bodies of water, we would shoulder our canoe, our bags, and our mosquito spray and carry everything. Our longest portage was more than a mile.
 
To slip so completely away from strip malls and fast food, one must bring a surprising plethora of things: hats with mosquito veils, sleeping bags and tents, gas tins and a stove, food, and first aid kits. We had tried to take the bare minimum (which meant, for me, a single T-shirt), but we still filled four bags, which nestled in the belly of our canoe.
 
On each portage I grew resentful of our expendable items. Carrying the canoe was cumbersome, and our bags did not rest easily on our shoulders. The mosquitoes bit viciously at our legs, making the burdens feel heavier and more irritating.
 
2007 1528 page17Most groups were compatible with their equipment. They leaped out of their canoes before touching land, swung packs over shoulders, flipped canoes over heads, and disappeared down the trail, appearing at times to gallop.
 
My father and I first unloaded our four bags, then carried the canoe, then changed into trail shoes, then put on bug spray, and then we made two trips. Only a group of Boy Scouts was as challenged as we were.
 
“We brought too much heavy food,” I announced, giving the trail mix an accusing glance. “And how many T-shirts did you bring anyway?” I knew my father had three. On the longest portage I piously reminded him that I had brought only one.
 
Yet when we camped I was glad for the tents and for the water purifier and for the hand lotion I had secretly packed (and did not mention during portages). I was glad for the Band Aids—my feet were terribly blistered—and glad, too, for the backpacker meals to which one simply added boiling water and waited 10 minutes.
 
To enter the wilderness stripped of all worldly goods would be dangerous, irresponsible. But entering with too much stuff was exhausting. Because one had to carry all one’s possessions, ownership came with accountability. In the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, the push and pull of necessity and excess was magnified.
 
In industrialized countries we own more than ever before. We buy electronics, clothing, fancy cooking paraphernalia, home decorations, exercise gear, tools, even camping equipment. Because some items are necessary, we buy with little contemplation. “I need a new pair of shoes,” we say in all seriousness. The line between need and excess is so blurry we no longer see it.
 
To help clarify the distinction, a cooperative in San Francisco created The Compact.* Those who participate avoid buying new items for a year—excepting food and toiletries. Instead they make things, trade things, or, if necessary, buy used.
 
Long before The Compact, Jesus criticized materialism. In Luke 12:13-21 we find the parable of the rich fool. When the rich fool’s crops do particularly well, he says he has no place to store the excess grain. So he decides to rip down his old barns and build bigger ones. That night, however, he dies, and God asks him, “Who will get what you have prepared for yourself?” (Luke 12:20).
 
It is a human desire to want to hold on to something, to own something lovely. This desire, however, is insatiable and so we keep buying and buying. And what we buy, we carry. We are weighed down with debt, with excess clutter, and with fear that we will lose what we have.
 
We must begin asking ourselves: What do I really need and what do I want?
 
My father and I finished our journey in five days. As we paddled through the last lake, we listed all the items we hadn’t really needed. Next time, we decided, we would take less.
 
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*You can visit The Compact’s blog at sfcompact.blogspot.com.
 
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After finishing a master’s degree in Fine Arts for Creative Writing, Sari Fordham teaches at La Sierra University in Riverside, California.

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