Page 35 of Happiness for Beginners

“The wilderness,” a guy said.

“The backcountry,” offered another.

“The middle of nowhere,” said a third.

“Are we going to Disneyland?” Beckett asked the group, looking around.

“No,” everybody said now, getting in the groove.

“That’s right,” Beckett agreed. “We are going to the opposite of Disneyland. We’re going to the Absaroka mountains. Not pronounced the way it’s spelled, by the way. Say it with me: ‘Ab-SOAR-kas.’”

“Ab-soar-kas,” we all said.

“One of the steepest, wildest, most bloodthirsty ranges in the U.S. It will chew you up and spit you out like cherry pits. This is not kid stuff, kids. If you have any hope of surviving,” he paused here for emphasis, “you will follow my rules to the letter.”

I wondered if any of that was true, or if he was just trying to get back on top.

“This afternoon, we’ll go to Outfitting for any gear you still need. After that we’ll go to the Pantry to fill our packs, and then, after a good supper—I recommend the Mexican place on State Street—you will enjoy your last shower, and take your last shit on a toilet, and curl up for your last night in a bed.”

Beckett looked delighted to bear this news. “You are about to get pummeled on a daily basis. We’re not going to the Four Seasons, people. Motel 6 will look like a luxury cruise when I’m done with you. You want to know where we’re going? To a land with no toilet paper.” He nodded, pleased at the shocked expressions. “That’s right. For the next three weeks, you’re going to be wiping your ass with a pinecone. You’re going to get absolutely filthy. There are no showers out there, friends. No shampoo, no deodorant, no Axe hair gel. You’re going to look like hell and smell like a skunk. I don’t know who you think you are or why you think you can do this trip. Maybe you think you’re amazing. Maybe you think you’re a tough guy. But I’ll tell you something: The only tough guy in the Absarokas is Mother Nature, and she is going to drag your ass up and down the block.”

I glanced around the room. The kids were thrilled with the idea of an ass kicking.

Beckett pulled out a sample backpack and started showing us how to pack.

“Here’s how we live in the Absarokas,” he went on. “We don’t take anything—anything—we don’t need. Every ounce counts when you carry your whole life on your back. You’ll have a toothbrush, two ounces of toothpaste, and a plastic bag to spit into. You’re permitted sunscreen and ChapStick and a comb. You are not permitted: makeup, lotion, jewelry, or electronics of any kind. And guess what? We leave nothing but footprints. Everything we pack in, we pack out. Ladies, if it’s your time of the month—”

“Gross!” one of the guys shouted.

“You’ll keep your used feminine supplies double-bagged and bring them back with you.Pack it in, pack it out.You cannot flick your used lady-products into the woods and get away with it. Leaving tampons on the trail is grounds for expulsion.”

Was this a problem? Did the women on these trips just fling their old tampons all around the forest? Did we need to cover this in the opening monologue? I really had not thought this trip through. I hadn’t foreseen that we wouldn’t bathe for three weeks. Or that we wouldn’t be allowed to bring deodorant. Or the whole “wiping with a pinecone” situation. As my chest seized up with anxiety about the horrific wrong turn I had just made by coming here, I tried, at the same time, to give silent thanks for the fact that, at the very least, it wasn’t going to be my time of the month.

What the hell had I been thinking? I wasn’t a hiker! I wasn’t outdoorsy! My favorite things in the world were soft beds, good books, and big cups of coffee. I did not want to have my ass kicked—by Mother Nature or anyone else.

How had I not figured this out before? This trip was the very last thing on earth I wanted to do. I suddenly felt a lurch of despair in my stomach. I should have gone to Paris in a jaunty hat and taken a cooking class! How on earth had I picked Bigfoot for my role model over Julia Child?

I looked around the room to see if anybody else was panicking. But those kids—those dumb kids—were enraptured. The scarier Beckett got, the more they loved it.

“You can bring one small camera if it fits in this pocket,” he said, pointing at a zipper on his daypack. “You are permitted one extra T-shirt, one extra set of socks, and one extra pair of underpants. You are required to bring a notebook to serve as your journal, and you may bring one book only for entertainment. You’ll be issued anything you need at Outfitting. You’ll pack your bags yourself, using our system, but don’t even think about trying to sneak in shampoo or deodorant.” He glared at all of us, but the women in particular. “That’s wasting space and adding weight. If I find it in your pack, I will make you eat it.”

Next, he pulled out a map and pointed at a green area with a bunch of wiggly lines like fingerprints on top of it. “Over the next three weeks, we will traverse this range.” He traced a route with a ballpoint pen. “We’ll sleep in tent groups of four and hike together every day. We’ll rise with the sun and travel six to twelve miles a day, some of them vertical miles. You will be exhausted. You may well have blisters. You will hate yourself and everyone around you. That’s okay. Too bad. When we get to camp, you’ll set up your sleeping tarps first, then your kitchens. There’ll be a lot of farting on this trip, people. It’s funny and hilarious. Get over it. Dehydrated food does that to you. Think of it as jet propulsion.”

This guy was dead serious.

“This is not Hiking for Beginners, people,” he said, looking around at the group. “Man up and deal with it.”

It wasn’t?It wasn’t hiking for beginners? Yes, it was! “Actually, itishiking for beginners,” I blurted out. “It’s listed as a beginners course. In the catalog.”

For a second, he blinked like he hadn’t realized that. Then he gave me a look. “You know what I mean.”

Actually, no I didn’t.

“Okay,” he said next, clapping his hands together as if he’d covered everything there was to cover. “That’s it for now. Any questions?”

That big guy Mason raised his hand. “What do we do with our poo?” he asked. “Do we pack that out in plastic bags, as well?”

Beckett’s face got serious. “Yes. You’ll keep that in your pack with your kitchen supplies.”

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