Unpacking some backpacking angst

Or the power of body image issues and poor packing choices

It felt like a year, but it was probably only 15 minutes or so. As I lay in my tent, I was pretty sure my skin was going to explode. In fact, I wondered if this is what a hot dog felt like in the microwave. I wanted the relief of tears, but it was too hot to cry. I was too hot to do anything but try to breathe, and wonder what the f@#$ was wrong with me.

Let’s back up a bit.

Two days earlier, I’d arrived in Scottsdale, Arizona, full of excitement about my first backpacking trip in nearly 30 years. A woman’s trip, through REI, over 3 days in the Superstition mountains. I’d glanced at the weather, but not really thought much about it. Mostly I was excited to go on an adventure, to see a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, and test the training and preparation that I’d done.

At our orientation that night, the guides for our trip advised us to buy a sun shirt, which I duly did. They emphasized the importance of packing lots of water because it was gonna be hot…hotter than we’d anticipated. Like in the 90s hot. That was the first time I consciously thought “Huh. This could be tricky.”

But I was still pretty psyched.

The next morning, what we were facing didn’t really hit me until we got to the parking lot of our trailhead. We exited our van and I blinked into the heat. I started to wonder what we were in for. I started to think about the fact that I wouldn’t normally hike on a day this hot. I started to really regret not having lighter colored pants. As our guides handed out white towels and urged us to wet them and drape them around our necks (little did I know how important they would become), we all shared some nervous glances.

And then came the “pack fitting.” That was when I was told to cinch my hip belt tight at at my belly button, and had to look down at my belly spilling over the top of the belt. That was it…that was the moment. When the drumbeat of “You didn’t work hard enough, Jodi. If you had, you wouldn’t have that belly. Why didn’t you work harder to lose that weight?” began.

Our first day would be our toughest, they said. And physically, they weren’t wrong. This was the day of the most uphill, done during the hottest hours of the day, and yeah, I struggled. I lagged at the back of the pack, and had a couple of moments where my flatlander lungs almost caused a panic attack as I tried to suck in a full breath. My body was in shock, I think: hips screaming at me, back muscles protesting, shoulders wondering what was happening. And of course, this triggered an avalanche of self-doubt that no doubt contributed to my almost-panic.

But somehow, that day ended and it was heartening to hear how hard it had been for everyone else in the group. I wasn’t alone in the struggle; that felt comforting. There wasn’t much chit chat around the campfire that night. We were all too tired and longing for our sleeping pads. I slept well, mostly content in my tent.

The next day started out with promise. I didn’t feel all that bad when I woke up. We had a lovely flattish hike through a gorgeous canyon, plus an earlier start and slightly cooler temps. A beautifully peaceful lunch under a tree. A pack that felt better on my back and hips. A tip for others with bellies: I let it sit a bit lower than recommended, and that made a ton of difference both for breathing and for my hips.

But something happened between lunch and getting to our second camp. Blisters started hurting more than they had. The little ups and downs of climbing into and out of a river wash got harder with each moment. It seemed hotter than before. And when we finally arrived at camp, I just wanted to strip to my sports bra like the other girls were doing but I was too ashamed of my belly to do it outside.

So I dove into my tent, tore off my shirt, lay back and tried to breathe. It was just too hot for that, though, and I knew I had to put another shirt on and get outside.

But here’s the thing. The one stupid thing that would send me down a spiral of gloom.

I’d packed the wrong shirt.

In my enthusiasm to lighten my pack, I’d brought only one extra shirt, to sleep in. A base layer, long sleeved, because it was supposed to cool off at night in the desert. But it was a heatwave, and this was my only non-gross option for an evening in camp.

Except this was one of those “women-sized” shirts, which means narrow, clingy and way more formfitting than I am ever comfortable with. I really don’t like how I look in that shirt. Hence, why it was for sleeping.

But I had no choice. I shrugged out of my sweaty hiking shirt and squeezed into the new one. And felt instantly miserable. That belly that spilled over the top of the waist buckle? Nope, it hadn’t miraculously vanished. All the insecurities I have about my weight? They came roaring to life into my tired and overheated head, and that was that.

I lay in the tent, paralyzed with the heat but unable to face the shame of going outside and seeing all the other ladies in their shorts and little t-shirts. Of having them see me in my too-tight shirt. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

After a while, the voice of our guide filtered through, urging all of us to go “down to the water” to watch the sun go down. I’m sure she didn’t know what was happening in my head, but I’m grateful for her words because they gave me a jolt to get out of the tent. I climbed out and zombie walked down to the “water”, which was a mostly dry riverbed with a few algae-filled puddles. I saw the group lounging and chatting happily and immediately veered away; I didn’t want to be seen by anyone. I’d heard someone mention that there was more water a little ways away, so I wandered to try to find it, hoping I could douse my towel in cold water and lay it on my face. It wasn’t much of conscious choice; my feet just took me there.

But there was no water that I could find.

What I did find was a huge flat boulder, and I climbed up on it. I looked back at the rest of the girls. They were having fun, it seemed. It looked like a photo shoot was happening, and the thought of posing and trying to look pretty while I felt like anything but was horrifying. I noticed a hole, about 8 inches deep and 4 inches wide, carved in the rock, and remembered visiting another desert location where the rangers said sometimes those holes were used by native women to store and heat water. And without much thought, I lay down on the rock next to the hole and let the hot wind pass over me.

It’s a sign that I’ve watched too many adventure movies and read too many adventure books that I actually found myself asking the wind and the rock and the spirits of those imagined women for help. Why can’t I find the joy in all of this, I asked silently. Why can’t I believe my own words about not letting my weight hold me back?

Unlike in the movies or books, though, no one spoke to me on the wind. Not directly. But eventually, the tears came.

After a while, they dried up and I felt calm enough to climb down from my rock and trudge over to join the group. It was indeed a photo shoot in the magic hour light. One of the girls kindly asked if I wanted a picture, and I shook my head quickly. She didn’t push, for which I will be forever grateful. Eventually, the good spirits of the group crept up on me, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the evening. Sleep was tough to come by that night, though.

When we set out the next morning after a lovely sunrise and pancake breakfast, I found myself near tears again, fretting about “could I make it up the big hills today?” and this time, it made me mad. Of course I could make it up. I’d made it up far worse. I’d just run a damned half marathon and hiked 13 miles in a heat wave. Why was I so convinced of my own failure before I even started? I don’t know. The mind is a tricky thing.

Happily something happened over that day. I think it’s my own version of getting my sea legs…mountain legs, if you will. We hiked in the cool shade in the morning, which helped. When we faced a steep uphill, the guides stopped, let us douse our towels (thank god for those towels, seriously. I would have been a crispy sunburned lobster without mine), gave us time to mentally prep, and up we went. And it was easier than I’d thought. And suddenly, I felt like I’d hoped to feel; strong and capable despite my body size. Even though the heat absolutely pummeled us on the final descent, I finished strong and very proud of myself.

So, what’s the deal with all that self-drama? What do I take from this? First of all, I wish I could have gotten out of my head sooner. I wish I’d thought to ask the other women if they were struggling too, instead of being so wrapped up in my own issues. But, I’m going to choose not to beat myself up about those things.

With a couple of weeks distance, I have enough perspective to recognize that any challenge like this is bound to summon some inner demons, as my friend sagely pointed out. After all, we don’t come on such trips to have them be easy. And as I’ve retold versions of this story to friends and family, I’ve remembered that this always happens; the first days of a hiking trip, especially in altitudes higher than sea level, tend to get me. But a day or two later, I get my legs and do just fine.

And clearly, if I’d just packed a comfy t-shirt, that whole crying on a rock thing might have been avoided. I laughed a bit the other day when that thought occurred to me.

But it all comes back to that moment at the beginning when I cinched the waist buckle and went down the body image issue rabbit hole. I think there is some blame to be laid at the feet of an outdoor industry that rarely considers people of my body size when they design gear or write articles.

But really, this is not about gear. It’s about perception, comparison (that thief of joy), and the tendency some of us have to believe that our best (or best we could) efforts aren’t enough. In my case, the fact that I’d trained hard and run a half marathon the week prior wasn’t enough to overcome my deep-rooted insecurity about the extra pounds I carry. With distance, I realize the folly of that, and I can say now that I’m proud of what I was able to do. Both physically, in getting through the trip, and even emotionally, being able to come out the other side with perspective and real, genuine gratitude for the people I met and the places I saw. I may have said that no magic voices spoke to me on the wind that evening, but something helped me find comfort in the good vibes of the other women, and I’m glad it did.

One of my fellow hikers loved the saguaros, and always wanted to stop for a pic. In the first day or two, I wanted none of it, but she was just so cheerful about it. The other day, she shared this and said “this is a good one of you!”

I didn’t want to look at it, at first. See how I’m holding my hands? That’s to hide my belly because, even in a place like this, that’s what I thought of first.

But look at that landscape. Look at that cactus. Look at that sky. How did I get there, but under the power of my legs and my body? After a while, I started to see what was actually there; a strong woman doing what very few people in life get to do.

We have to try to let that message have more power than our wish for our bodies to look different. A year or so ago, I’d have told you I was making progress with that. Clearly, I still have a lot of work to do. But I guess I take some hope in the process. Even with all my issues, I still made it through an epic adventure, can look back on it fondly and yes, even plan the next one. That’s gotta count for something.

Here’s to all of you who are doing some variation of this. I hope it gets easier. And for heaven’s sake, learn from me and pack the right damn t-shirt. :)