WANDERINGS

I have a favorite T-shirt with the saying, “Not All Who Wander Are Lost“.   It’s a paraphrase from J.R.R. Tolkien’s poem, All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter, found in his first volume of Lord of the Rings.   Yet, everyone knows that we do lose things when we wander;  not always a bad thing. What we find along the way makes the journey worth the trip. 

 

 

 

WANDERINGS

 

A bronze plaque hangs by the entrance to Bascom Hall on the UW-Madison campus.  The quote on it reads~

“Whatever may be the limitations which trammel inquiry elsewhere, we believe that the great state University of Wisconsin should ever encourage that continual and fearless sifting and winnowing by which alone the truth can be found.”

High on the list of antiquities salvaged from my undergraduate years are the words, “sifting and winnowing”.  I’d learned about sifting from watching my mother bake, but winnowing remained a mystery, until the day my wife’s ninety-year old grandmother made it clear to me.  We were harvesting popcorn, a staple on their family’s farm near Montello, and I was asked to help with the last step in the journey from field to larder.  Pointing to an oversized roaster full of kernels, grandma Stelter summoned me to the dooryard, saying we needed to winnow the corn.  Once there, I was told to pour the kernels into a pail.  As they fell, the useless hulls disappeared into the wind.

 

A thirteen year old knows something about popcorn, but little of other essentials or how to separate them from the rest.  So, when my son, Joel, and I began to think about taking a trip one summer, the lesson from the farm came drifting back.  We planned a hike along the Ice Age Trail in the southern unit of Wisconsin’s Kettle Moraine State Forest.  Over six days, our round trip would cover forty-two miles.  For days, we bothered with what to wear and what to eat.  In the end, it came down to what we could do without.  One thing would be the rain fly for the tent.  Our stretch of trail has Adirondack shelters at each of three designated campsites.  Open and airy, the primitive structures would at least keep the rain, and other assorted droppings, off our tent.

 

Our routine was simple enough.  In the mornings, still sleepy and sore, we’d breakfast on oatmeal and coffee, or hot chocolate, depending on one’s age.  During the day we ran on beef jerky, granola bars and peanut butter bagels.  Actually, it was water that fueled us, and lots of it.  It was late June and, in the warm, humid air, we pumped fluids like hydrants.  Once evening came, relieved of packs and heavy boots, we could rest and relax.  With only the steady roar of a gas stove to replace the trappings of modern life, time meandered.  The distance of a few days had put the overstuffed world far behind and, in the fading twilight; the simple pleasure of a warm meal was a welcome delight.  All right, supper was usually freeze dried and eaten so hungrily that we often scalded our mouths on its still chewy texture.  Even so, it was as gourmet as it would get and we ate eagerly.  Once our few dishes were done, we’d crawl into the tent.  I might read a chapter from a book I’d brought along, but more often we would simply stare into the blackness of the tent ceiling, fielding each other’s thoughts and savoring our own.

 

Trekking tends to shift priorities, and nearly always brings the traveler home feeling lighter than when he left.  Non-essentials disappear with the wind, as payments and schedules give way to the demands of gear and the comfort of dry socks.  A brief avenue of shade in a forest interlude graciously pays for an hour in the hot sun and the time idled away on an overlook, where you only stopped for lunch, turns out to be the reason you made the trip in the first place.  Sifting and winnowing, and the search for truth . . . reason enough to pack light and travel a wilderness.