getting back into a backpack

It's not the kind of memory you bother to hold on it; but it's in there somewhere, so it comes back easily when, after all these years, the action repeats itself. You finish filling the backpack; you marvel at its height; and then stupidly you just lift it, thinking you can just put on such a large, strangely-shaped beast and go on with your usual one foot after the next routine. Instead, as soon as your second arm slips through the loop of the armhole, the pack totters, and you totter, and this time you don't fully fall over like you did that first try half a lifetime ago, but you totter and chuckle, well remembering the surprise of it back then and thinking you should've known better, you should've remembered how to do this. You chuckle, tug on the appropriate cords to tighten that sucker securely to your back, and turn to face the mirror. It's taller than you, it's wider than you; you are sure you could have packed it better. But regardless, you are grinning at yourself in the mirror, because it's been a goddam long time since you went into the wilderness like this -- to stay for a few days, not just for an afternoon, not just for day trips from a hotel or B&B or cabin but from sleeping on the ground, in a tent, like you really mean it -- and you're excited. You remember how much you once loved doing this, how satisfying you know it is to see parts of this Earth that one can't get to with a car or just by walking in off the street, and you know that even though this will be a short trip, it will be a good re-entry point. You are sure, even before going, that you will return to this. You moved all the way across the country for this, after all—you moved all the way across the country to regain your outdoorsyness. And after three years in California, it's about damn time you do!

(More on the excursion when I return...)