"I've Never Understood Why People Are So Afraid of the Wilderness" | ClancyPasta PRESENTS

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[00:01:00] ClancyPasta presents. I've never understood why people are so afraid of the wilderness. By Intelligent Home 8662. And you're listening to ClancyPasta.

[00:01:24] ClancyPasta. Anyone who's grown up in Alaska can tell you exactly how cold it is by the sound of the snow beneath your feet. At certain temperatures, it squeaks. At others, it crunches loudly like a bag of chips. Today, it made a dry, brittle sound beneath my snowshoes. Like crushing styrofoam within a closed fist.

[00:01:50] It was bitter enough that the moisture in my breath was freezing against the wool around my mouth. I pulled my neck gaiter higher over my nose and kept walking. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The sound of my snowshoes was almost comforting in the otherwise dead silence of the woods.

[00:02:17] Frost-coated the spruce needles overhead, each branch carrying a thin white outline. Where the trees opened up, the weak morning light caught the ice, making the branches glint whenever I moved my head. Every so often, a gust swept through the trees and found its way down the back of my collar.

[00:02:40] It was a sharp, intimate kind of cold, slipping beneath my layers and spreading across my shoulder. I maintained a steady pace, mindful of the danger of a damp base layer. However, once I cleared the previous ridge, the air sharpened, and each deep breath brought a raw, piercing sting to my chest.

[00:03:09] Unpleasant, sure. But unpleasant wasn't dangerous. That was the kind of distinction people who stayed indoors never bothered to understand. I'd been on the trail for about two hours. The old man had made this walk hundreds of times, often in worse weather than this, and I had a difficult time imagining him turning around when the conditions had gotten uncomfortable.

[00:03:39] Uncomfortable. My grandfather had trapped this line for nearly forty years, back when the nearest asphalt was a half-day's ride away, and the man couldn't call for rescue just because his feet grew numb. I stopped for a moment, and glanced down at the compass strapped to my wrist. A delicate ring of frost had crystallized round the edges of its glass face.

[00:04:09] I checked the needle against the bearing I'd marked on my map that morning, shielding the map from the wind as I unfolded it. It was a few degrees off course, so I adjusted my heading east. A few degrees off. Nothing worth worrying about. This stretch of the trail had always been difficult to follow, even when my grandfather still maintained it.

[00:04:38] Most of the old axe blazes sat low, half-swallowed by the expanding trunks, in the blinding uniformity of the winter at a way of erasing the path, making every shallow depression look identical to the rest. I folded the map and continued walking. The cabin sat on a low rise beyond a frozen creek,

[00:05:07] tucked into a thick stand where the trees grew close enough together to break the wind. At least, that was how I remembered it. I hadn't been back since I was a child, and the memories returned only in fragmented pieces, the rich scent of wood smoke clinging to my grandfather's coat, and the amber glow of the fireplace paired with a soft crackle.

[00:05:37] I told my uncle I wanted the old man's notebooks before he cleared out the rest of his belongings. A hard rush shot through the canopy, shaking loose a veil of powder that sifted down across my shoulders. I brushed it away and continued walking.

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[00:06:50] Redeem your points online or in the app. Fred Meyer. Fresh for everyone. Restrictions apply. Seasider store for details. The trail dipped gradually between the trees. I followed the depression for another few hundred yards before it disappeared beneath a stretch of undisturbed snow. I stopped.

[00:07:17] Ahead, the woods looked exactly as I had remembered them. The low curve of the ridge, the thick stand of spruce, and a narrow gap between two trees where the trail should have continued toward the creek. The snow was deeper here, gathering in the hollows between the trees. My snowshoes had begun sinking several inches with every step,

[00:07:46] and I had to work a little more to keep my pace. I hadn't gone another fifty yards before my right snowshoe caught on something beneath the surface. My foot stopped dead. The rest of me kept moving. I pitched forward, catching myself violently with both hands as the heavy pack slammed against my shoulders.

[00:08:13] For a second, I stayed there on all fours, panting clouds of steam into the ground. Cold powder had already forced its way past the cuffs of my gloves, melting into an icy sting against my wrists. God damn it. I pushed myself upright and ripped off my gloves to take out the snow, the bitter air instantly clawing at my bare fingers.

[00:08:44] My snowshoe was pinned beneath a crooked branch, thick as my wrist and buried deep enough that I hadn't seen it until it was too late. I rocked my foot backwards, but the binding held fast. Grandpa would have laughed at me for that. I dropped to one knee and dug around the branch with my gloved hands.

[00:09:09] Once, the powder on top was loose, but a heavier crust was packed underneath. It took a minute to clear enough of the wood to free the frame. When I finally pulled my snowshoe loose, I checked the binding for damage, then brushed the powder from my knees as I stood up.

[00:09:36] Eager to get moving again, I pushed onward. My fingers ached fiercely from the brief exposure, but the sharp throb faded as I balled them into fists and flexed them against the lining of my gloves. The blasts of air started happening more often. They came through the trees in irregular rushes, whipping up pale tendrils of snow that slithered across the ground like smoke.

[00:10:05] I continued down the hollow, expecting to find the creek at any moment. Instead, the ground began to rise. I stopped at the foot of the slope, glancing up towards the canopy. The ridge wasn't particularly steep, but, according to the map in my hand, it shouldn't have existed.

[00:10:34] The creek lay beyond a gradual descent. Not another climb. I stood for a moment, trying to reconcile the two. Then I shrugged my pack higher on my shoulders and started up. Halfway up, I caught sight of a birch with a long scar running down its trunk. The sight of it brought back a fragment of memory.

[00:11:03] My grandfather used to read trees like that. I smiled beneath my gator. Maybe the creek was farther east than I remembered. Maybe I'd crossed the wrong low spot. Either way, I was still moving in the right general direction, and the cabin certainly wasn't going anywhere. At the top, I stopped to catch my breath.

[00:11:34] Beyond the ridge, the land dropped into a basin of dark timber and rolling white ground. Farther out, the trees dissolved into the haze. I stood for a moment, waiting for the view to resolve into something familiar. I bent forward, resting my hands on my thighs. The climb had taken more out of me than I'd expected.

[00:12:03] My breathing came heavily through the gator, and I could feel sweat cooling along my spine. I looked out over the basin. A gust swept across the ridge, hard enough to make me turn my face away. Snow hissed over the crust of my feet, gathering in the lee of my snowshoes before spilling down the slope.

[00:12:29] I watched it move between the trees. The weather had been turning for a while. I could see it in the low ceiling of clouds and feel it in the strengthening wind. The basin would offer plenty of shelter. I pulled my gator higher and started down.

[00:12:54] The descent was steeper than it had looked from above. I worked my way between the trees, using the trunks to steady myself whenever the loose drift sloughed away beneath my snowshoes. The first flakes began falling a few minutes later. A few caught on my sleeve, so I brushed them away.

[00:13:23] Others settled on the dark shoulders of my pack and remained there as tiny white specks. I looked up through the trees. The sky had disappeared into a uniform sheet of gray, forcing me to blink away the phantom floaters that darted across my vision. The snowfall was light enough that I could still make out the darker shapes of the trees ahead,

[00:13:51] though the far side of the basin had disappeared entirely. I descended another hundred yards before the ground leveled out beneath my feet. I caught the first glimpse of water through the trees. A narrow strip of black showed beneath the opposite bank, where the drifts had slumped away from the edge. The creek was wider than I remembered,

[00:14:21] though I suppose memory has a way of shrinking things. I stopped by the bank and studied the crossing. Snow covered the ice from one side to the other. Broken by a few exposed rocks and the crooked tips of willow branches. The surface slightly sagged near the middle, but I couldn't see any open water beyond the dark strip along the bank.

[00:14:52] All I had to do was find a suitable place to cross. I moved upstream a short distance, where the banks narrowed and the gap looked more manageable to bridge. I could have followed the creek farther until I found a better place, but the snowfall was picking up and my thighs were burning, leaden from the miles of breaking trail.

[00:15:20] Pushing further upstream felt like wasted effort, when the opposite bank was right in front of me. I stepped onto the ice. My snowshoes distributed my weight across the crust, and the surface made a dull, hollow sound beneath each foot. Crack! Crack! I almost didn't hear it over the roar of the wind.

[00:15:50] Before I could shift my weight, the surface collapsed. My left leg plunged through the snow and ice, followed by the rest of me. The water closed around my waist. The cold seized my legs and drove the air from my lungs. My pack yanked me backward. I threw both arms forward and hit the broken edge hard.

[00:16:17] The ice plate shifted and crumbled under my forearms. Water poured into my sleeves. I scrambled to get my knees beneath me, but my snowshoe caught under the ice. The water dragged at my legs, and the pack kept pulling me backward. I lunged again, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet crust. The pack kept pulling me the wrong way,

[00:16:46] heavy as a second body. For a second, I was half under, mouth filling with ice water. The world reduced to the roar of blood in my ears and the black water around my chest. I kicked strong enough to free my right foot. The snowshoe scraped against the underside of the ice before coming loose.

[00:17:16] I hauled myself forward, dragging my chest over the broken edge until I could get a knee onto the surface. The opposite bank was only a few yards away. The crust cracked beneath me. I kept crawling. By the time I reached the bank, I collapsed onto my side, gasping. Flakes were already collecting on my shoulder.

[00:17:47] Water ran from my jacket and pooled beneath my hips. My pants clung to my legs. I tried to move, but the wet fabric pulled tight to my knees like saran wrap. Fuck. I sat up and looked back at the hole. The ice around it had broken into jagged plates

[00:18:14] and the dark water moved steadily beneath them. I'd tested the surface. I'd chosen the narrowest part of the creek. There hadn't been an obvious sign that it would give way. It was a freak accident. Nothing more. I dragged my pack farther from the bank. My hands had started trembling

[00:18:41] and I struggled with the buckles when I checked to ensure the contents were dry. My spare clothes and fire kit were still sealed within the bag. I needed to change and I needed a fire. I made for a grove of trees a short distance from the creek, keeping my eyes locked on the ground and forcing my wooden legs to lift, refusing to acknowledge the burning numbness.

[00:19:13] I set my eyes on a large ancient spruce in the stand. Its thick canopy had kept the snow shallow at its base and the low dead branches would give me all the dry kindling I needed. I dropped my pack and began gathering wood from the lower limbs. My fingers were already rigid inside my wet gloves, so I took them off and worked quickly,

[00:19:43] snapping the smallest twigs between my hands and breaking the branches into reasonable pieces. The bitterness gnawed into my fingers, but I ignored it until I had enough material for my fire. I scraped away the loose snow and built a bed of dry sticks, a raft to keep the fire from sinking into the slush. I then dug into the top pocket of my pack

[00:20:13] and pulled out a small tin containing a handful of cotton balls, saturated with petroleum jelly. My bare fingers were slick, dull, and clumsy, fumbling with the lid before I managed to pinch one of the cotton balls and tuck it right in the center of the platform. Propping a nest of pencil-thin twigs over it, I reached for my match case.

[00:20:42] My hands were shuddering so violently now that the brass tube rattled against my teeth when I used my mouth to twist off the cap. Ishk! The match caught, flickered, and nearly died. I shielded it with my unsteady hands and pressed the tiny flare directly into the cotton ball. The cotton caught immediately, the flame spreading through the greasy fibers before licking at the twigs above it.

[00:21:13] I held my hands around the little nest, shielding it from the element. For a few seconds, it looked promising. Then the wind found its way beneath my frozen fingers. The flame flattened, throwing a thin ribbon of smoke across the snow. One of the twigs caught, then another,

[00:21:40] but the fire wasn't growing the way it should have. I reached for a handful of smaller sticks and laid them over the top. The flame vanished. I stared at the little pile of wood, waiting for it to reappear. A thread of smoke curled between the sticks before vanishing.

[00:22:08] I pulled the twigs apart with my fingertips. The cotton was still smoldering, its edges blackened and glowing faintly beneath the ash. I blew on it, careful not to scatter the struggling embers, and a weak orange light flickered back to life. I leaned closer and fed it another twig. It caught for a moment before going dark again.

[00:22:39] I rocked back into my heels. The wood was dry. I'd checked it myself. I tried again. This time, I arranged the twigs more loosely, leaving gaps between them for air. The shaking was getting worse. I sneered in my fingers, annoyed by their weakness. I struck another match.

[00:23:08] The cotton caught immediately, but as I leaned forward to shield it, my hand knocked against the nest. The twigs collapsed into the flame, scattering my progress. I jerked my hand away and watched as the flame struggled beneath the fallen sticks. I knew better than to crowd a fire. My hand simply wouldn't do what I told them.

[00:23:35] I stared at the dead, black mess. My jaw clenched so tightly, it ached. Coca-Cola. For the big, for the small, the short, and the tall. Peacemakers, risk takers. For the optimists, pessimists, for long distance love. For introverts, and extroverts, the thinkers, and the doers.

[00:24:06] For old friends, and new. Coca-Cola. For everyone. Pick up some Coca-Cola at a store near you. When you shop Pick Up at Fred Meyer, you can expect the savings you love and fresh groceries selected just for you. Our associates are committed to getting every detail right, carefully handpicking your items, checking for quality and freshness, and packing your order with care. Because bringing you fresh, quality groceries is what we do best. And right now,

[00:24:35] enjoy $30 off your first online order of $75 or more. Restrictions apply. See site for details. Fred Meyer. Fresh for everyone. I grabbed at a branch I collected for firewood and threw it in frustration. The cabin has a stove, I thought. I looked down at the remains of my fire. Of course it did.

[00:25:05] An old cast iron stove with a stack of split wood beside it. I remembered my grandfather feeding it in the mornings, leaving the door cracked until the logs caught. I reached for another cotton ball. What was I doing? I'd spent the better part of an hour crouched beneath this stupid tree,

[00:25:30] wasting matches and daylight on a fire I wouldn't need once I reached the cabin. I looked at my watch. The numbers seemed small. I brought my wrist closer to my face and held it there until I could make them out later than I'd thought. Whatever.

[00:25:56] I lowered my arm and stared at the massive sticks. My pants had frozen around my knees. When I shifted my weight, the icy fabric pulled against my skin, resisting the movement. I'd stopped feeling the wetness some time ago, which was a relief. I needed to get moving. I reached for my pack and tried to close the top buckle.

[00:26:27] The strap slipped from my fingers. I caught it against my thigh and pulled again, but the little plastic tongue wouldn't go into its slot. Cheap plastic. I wasn't going to waste another second fighting a manufacturing defect. I tucked the loose strap beneath the flap. Good enough. Standing took more effort than I'd expected.

[00:26:56] My legs resisted, and I had to brace myself against the trunk until the stiffness eased. My muscles were just sluggish from sitting in the snow. A few minutes of hiking would melt the cold out. I looked once more at my mess of twigs. I considered giving them another chance, but there was barely anything left to burn.

[00:27:26] Besides, I knew where I was going. I'd crossed the creek. The cabin was on the other side. All I had to do was follow the old line until I found the clearing. I shoved my left hand into its glove, forcing the unfeeling fingers down into the narrow stalls. The right glove was more difficult. My left hand couldn't pinch the cuff,

[00:27:55] so I clamped the frozen leather between my molars. I yanked hard, using the strength of my neck to drag the glove up over my right hand until the fabric bit into my wrist. I took a step. My right leg didn't move as far as I'd intended, and the toe of my snowshoe caught in the powder. I stumbled,

[00:28:24] catching myself against a tree. I stood there for a moment, irritated. Then I straightened up and started again. The first few steps were awkward, but the tightness began to work itself out of my legs. That was better. Movement was what I needed. Sitting beneath that tree had been the mistake. Every minute I'd spent crouched in the snow

[00:28:52] was another minute my clothes had been solidifying around me. I kept the creek behind me and pushed into the timber. The snowfall had grown heavy enough that the trees seemed to appear from nowhere, dark trunks emerging from the gray twenty or thirty yards ahead before slipping past me. I kept my eyes low,

[00:29:21] searching for the shallow depression of the old trail. The cabin couldn't be more than a mile away. I walked for a while before something on a spruce caught my eye. A pale mark on the trunk. I stopped. The scar sat about chest high,

[00:29:49] partially grown over by bark. Snow had collected along its lower edge, but beneath it, I could make out exposed wood. An axe blaze. I let out a short, triumphant breath that instantly turned to frost against my gator. I knew exactly where I was. The mark wasn't shaped

[00:30:18] quite the way I remembered. Grandpa usually cut his blazes clean, two strokes at an angle, while this one was longer and rougher around the edges. But it was old. I looked through the trees ahead. There would be another one. I continued walking. A few minutes later, I found another.

[00:30:49] This one was on a birch. A long strip of bark had peeled away from the trunk, exposing a dark patch beneath. I stopped beside it. Grandpa had marked birch, too. I couldn't remember him doing it often, but there was no reason he wouldn't have. I looked back toward the first blaze.

[00:31:20] I couldn't see it anymore. That didn't matter. The line was obvious now. I continued past the birch. My legs felt heavy, but the pain had dulled into something manageable. Even the cold seemed less vicious than it had beside the creek. My thighs no longer burned beneath my frozen pants,

[00:31:49] and the quivering had settled into a steady tremor, something that I hardly noticed unless I tried to use my hands. I was warming up. I knew walking would do it. Another mark appeared ahead, then another. Some were clean scars in the bark, others were little more than pale streaks on the trunks.

[00:32:18] But once I knew what I was looking for, I began seeing them everywhere. One spruce had two. I stopped beside it and stared. Grandpa wouldn't have marked the same tree twice, unless one indicated a turn. Of course, I looked to my left. The timber thickened in

[00:32:48] that direction, but beyond the first row of spruce, I could make out a narrow opening. I changed course. The next blaze took longer to find. I wandered between the trees. There were plenty of marks once I looked closely enough. Broken branches, stripped bark, black knots in the wood. Places where snow had stuck

[00:33:17] to one side of a trunk and left the other exposed. After a while, I realized I hadn't checked my compass. I stopped. For a moment, I couldn't remember which sleeve it was under. I patted my left wrist. Nothing. Then the right.

[00:33:47] The hard circle of the compass pressed beneath the fabric. I pulled the sleeve back and looked at the needle. It trembled slightly in my shaking hand before settling. North. I turned until I found east. The direction surprised me. I'd been heading farther south than I'd intended.

[00:34:17] Not far. Maybe I'd followed one of the old trap spurs by mistake. Grandpa had run several sets off the main line. East, I muttered. The word tasted heavy, my tongue thick and clumsy against my teeth. Simple enough. As I

[00:34:47] continued walking, I began thinking about the cabin again. I could see the stove and the little table beneath the window, Grandpa's coffee pot with the blackened bottom. I wondered if there would still be coffee. The thought made me grin under my gator. Either way, it didn't matter. I was going to get the stove going first.

[00:35:17] Then I'd get these pants off. Then, I stopped. There were marks in the snow between the trees. Two parallel rows of shallow impressions running off toward the east. Tracks. They were partially filled in by the fresh powder,

[00:35:46] but the distinct wide rectangular shape of snowshoes was unmistakable. someone had been through here recently. It didn't matter. They went the right way. The walking was easier here. The snow had been packed down and I didn't have to lift my feet quite so high. I settled into the

[00:36:16] rhythm and let the tracks float me between the trees. I followed the tracks until they curved around a large spruce. there was something behind it. A pile of sticks nearly buried in snow. My fire I stopped. I

[00:36:45] recognized the broken branch lying beside it. The blackened cotton. The hollow beneath the tree. I looked down at the tracks. My tracks. tracks. I must have followed one of grandpa's old trap spurs. They doubled back sometimes. I remembered that. Now,

[00:37:15] I lowered myself beneath the spruce. The wood was still here. I could try again. I reached for my pack, but my fingers wouldn't work the buckle. I took my gloves off and tried once more. Then, I gave up. It didn't matter. The cabin had a stove. I

[00:37:45] rested against the trunk. The shaking was less noticeable. I wasn't nearly as cold anymore. My legs felt warm beneath the stiff fabric. I just needed a minute. I thought about Grandpa sitting beside the stove with his coffee. He'd probably have something to say about all this. I smiled.

[00:38:16] The snow was settling on my lap. I should get up. I couldn't remember why I'd sat down. Something about a fire? No, the stove. Grandpa had the stove going. I could smell the coffee. I closed my eyes.

[00:38:47] I'd be inside soon. Coca-Cola for the big, for the small, the short, and the tall. Peacemakers, risk takers, for the optimists, pessimists, for long distance love, for introverts and extroverts,

[00:39:17] the thinkers and the doers, for old friends and new. Coca-Cola for everyone. Pick up some Coca-Cola at a store near you. When you shop Pickup at Fred Meyer, you can expect the savings you love and fresh groceries selected just for you. Our associates are committed to getting every detail right, carefully handpicking your items, checking for quality and freshness and packing your order with care. Because bringing you fresh quality groceries

[00:39:47] is what we do best. And right now, enjoy $30 off your first online order of $75 or