In this issue, three religious leaders from the Muslim, Jewish, and Christian faiths discuss spirituality in the age of climate change; Kim Todd explores the balance of predators and prey with particular attention to wolf populations in Isle Royale National Park; Jill Sisson Quinn explores the bond between her and her son through their shared experiences in nature; and much more.
Also: poetry by Ellen Bass, Layli Long Soldier, Ilyse Kusnetz, and Amanda Hawkins; plus Danica Novgorodoff’s illustrated essay on a pilgrimage home.
1. Choose a friend with no camping experience. Your choice of companion is key. He or she should be strong, durable, positive. Willingness to follow orders a bonus.
2. Forget the navigational guides. Both of you have a list of stuff to bring. Your jovial comrade, however, does not think to mention the absence of map, compass, or GPS until you’re heading off trail. For the next several days you will hike based on dead reckoning. Hopefully the emphasis is on reckoning and not dead.
3. Fail to check the weather forecast. You want to argue it was his job to check the forecast, but he can’t hear your cursing as you cling like a four-legged insect to a slick, moss-caked log and inch your way over foaming whitewater. And it’s not white water. It’s brown. You weren’t expecting rain, but here it is, pelting down like liquid marbles, swelling the rivers to epic proportions and flushing mud, branches, and your friend’s water bottle downstream.
4. Hike at night. Following the sound of your pal’s horribly off-key rendition of “Wagon Wheel,” you have three thoughts: Why did we choose this difficult route? Why are we still hiking at eleven-thirty p.m. in drenching rain? And why didn’t he bring a headlamp? This is when you discover that your “friend” has never been backpacking before. You take charge, shouldering him out of the lead.
5. Press on against all odds. Bushwhacking uphill, you know you’ll eventually reach your goal: the top of the ridge. Rumor has it the view is priceless. Trouble is, you’ve stumbled into a maze of foggy, flat muskegs that keep you wondering, “Haven’t we seen this tree before?” You try not to resent the lack of map, compass, or GPS. When the moss gives way beneath your chum and he plunges thigh high into stagnant black muck, you smile grimly. Better leave him for the wolves and carnivorous bog plants and save yourself. But his half-crazed whoops of exhilaration bring on pangs of guilt. You pull him out.
6. Don’t burden yourself with rain gear. “It rains in the rainforest?” You ignore his question and continue plodding in what you think is the right direction. Your friend’s jeans are streaming miniature rivers, torn by snarls of devil’s club, and soaked through to his boxers. You finally take pity on him and pull out your extra rain pants.
7. Leave the first aid kit at home. When your companion tumbles off a rocky ledge, you ask if he brought the first aid kit. You’re positive that was on his list. But, like rain gear, he forgot that too. You tear your extra t-shirt into strips and pack it with sphagnum moss. They say sphagnum has antiseptic qualities and was used in battle during World War I. If it doesn’t kill him, it’ll make him stronger. You kind of hope it’ll kill him.
8. Consider homicide. You contemplate a well-placed kick to his posterior as you toe along a precipice. Surely it would improve your own chances of surviving this expedition.
9. Admit defeat. When the time comes to acknowledge utter failure, you accept it gracefully. Hopefully you can find the car before you’re arm wrestling over the last of the provisions: a coagulated slice of pizza. You look at your companion, commando in your rain pants, unshaven stubble sticking out in patches around a toothy grin, hair dripping with rain and sweat. You doubt he’s ever felt so alive in his life. “Can we go out for pizza tonight?” he asks.