Destiny, interrupted

As a child I never nurtured the dream that one day, if I ate my vegetables and studied hard, I might grow up to be a middle-aged, middle-class government attorney sitting in a Herman Miller Aeron chair in front of dual computer monitors surfing case law on Lexis-Nexis while participating in a conference call dedicated to "return flows" and "points of diversion." Who could dream so large!

No, growing up near the confluence of the Priest and Pend Oreille rivers in northern Idaho, I dreamed that my destiny was to become an early nineteenth century mountain man. I could imagine myself, knee deep in icy water, checking my traps, shooting and field dressing a moose on my way back to my tipi, hanging the strips of meat over a fire to dry while boiling the nose and heart to mix with wild mushrooms and onions in a savory stew. And then off to the annual rendezvous to buy coffee, salt, and ammunition for the next year before moving on to whiskey drinking and other forms of debauchery until I run out of beaver pelts.

Good God. That would be living. Wild. Free. Independent. Hunting my own food. Growing a gnarly-ass beard that would glisten from slatherings of bear grease. Confronting nature on nature’s terms. No staff meetings or performance evaluations or email or business casual Fridays. Nobody judging me for settling disputes with a Bowie knife or an axe handle rather than facilitating the services of a professional mediator or filing an action in small claims court.

If not a mountain man, then perhaps I would become a member of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark’s "Corps of Discovery," poling a keelboat up the Missouri River into uncharted territories, cataloguing previously undocumented species of plant and animal, lugging supplies over snow-packed mountains, eating baked dog, roasted horse, and camas root, and liking it all because I was that damn hungry. Mud, mosquitos, backbreaking labor, rain, cold, poor food, dealing with the idiot Charbonneau, all minor inconveniences compared with the glory of living in such a time and place.

Ultimately, though, reality displaced my fantasy. First, there's the time travel issue I have found no way to resolve. Second, there's the reality that I am a wimp. I was reminded of the wimp thing the other night while nursing a sore jaw caused by the extraction of three wisdom teeth. Even with modern extraction methods and prescriptions of highly effective pain killers, I had a few miserable days, especially when the dreaded "dry socket" made an appearance. When I complained to the oral surgeon about the pain associated with my dry socket he said:  “Yeah. That sucks.” At least he upped my Vicodin prescription. While wisdom teeth extraction in 2012 may, to borrow a medical term, “suck,” I can appreciate how much more pleasant it is today versus two hundred years ago.

Also, contrary to earlier assertions, I have limits on the inconveniences I will endure in pursuit of glory. Including cold, which tends to be required when wading through icy Rocky Mountain streams in search of beaver. This past Saturday it was drizzling and in the forties in Boise as I made plans to go for a run. Looking at the gloomy skies and sensing a gusty breeze, I opted to run on a treadmill at the gym where I would enjoy a climate controlled environment while watching college football on a television. If I understand history correctly, there's no equivalent to TV and treadmill running in the beaver trapping world. And if I'm honest, I have to acknowledge that I can be fussy. I don't believe I would have cared for the smell of wet moccasins, leather leggings and buckskin stinking up my tipi.

Despite my failings, I still enjoy backcountry ventures into modern wilderness areas carrying everything I need on my back. I realize it's not the same as it was two hundred years ago. On my backpack trips, I travel with high octane mosquito repellent, water purifier, down sleeping bag, polypropylene clothing, Gore-Tex raingear, freeze-dried food, a three-season tent weighing less than three pounds, and (most importantly) baby wipes that enable me to return to the trailhead feeling fresh. My tent even has a vestibule where my boots and sweaty polypropylene socks can air out. And when I get home, the first thing I do is take a long, hot shower.

So I accept that I am a twenty-first century desk jockey and not a nineteenth century mountain man. Living in the here and now isn’t all bad. "Roughing it" now includes instant packets of Starbucks coffee. I can buy whiskey with a debit card rather than a beaver pelt. And I'm not gonna lie: I prefer a grilled rib eye steak and cold beer to beaver tail soup. But maybe one day I will follow my dream in at least small way and wear my "good" loincloth on business casual Friday. Stay tuned.