What is Reality?
The air was crisp and damp. And my hands were stiff from riding for two days as I struggled to zip up my jacket. I was pushing the bikepacking season into early October along the Tour Divide route in Montana, but so far it had been worth the gamble and I was happy to experience the self imposed discomfort along with all the beauty and positive experience. “This is what I came for.” and “If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.” were a couple of my mantras.
I shivered in my clothes as I unpacked the bivy, air pad and sleeping bag from the saddle bag on my bike. My helmet-mounted light beamed specular warm in front of me as I made camp. I had felt uneasy with the idea of camping along the side of Clearwater Lake Loop Road. It was just a dirt road with prickly brush along either side for miles. I had found a little clearing at an intersection with Fire Road 9814. I was less than half a mile - as the crow flies, from Highway 83, but I was hours from a store or any kind of help, should I need it. It was now 11:00pm, and after 85 miles, I was spent. I wanted to sleep, and thought I was probably tired enough to ignore my unease in bear country.
I tried to move fast and retain the bodyheat I had produced while riding. Within a few minutes I had my bivy staked down, with a single pole holding up the fabric above the head area. I pulled my sleeping bag from the stuff sac and laid it in the bivey. Then I made sure I placed my phone, bike computer, battery pack, cables, and bear spray in the bivy. I walked my bike 50 yards away and leaned it against a tree. All my food was in a frame bag on the bike, where I hoped it would still be in the morning.
I shimmied in the bag and zipped up, leaving a few inches open to vent condensation from my breath. I plugged my phone and bike computer into the battery pack to charge overnight, unbuckled my helmet and set it aside, took my glasses off, and laid my head down. Fifteen minutes later a light shining through the bivey fabric woke me up. I shuttered with confusion as I wondered who had pulled up, wishing they would turn off their headlights. Suddenly I realized the light wasn’t bright enough for headlights. Then I looked over at my phone and saw the screen illuminating the inside of my bivey. The panic was over. No, a ranger was not outside to harass me and tell me to pack up. It was just the Dexcom app on my phone alerting me my blood sugars were 56 and going down. I popped a couple glucose tabs and instantly fell back asleep.
An hour later I was awake again. I wasn’t uncomfortable necessarily, but not overly warm either. I was overly tired however - to the point of not being able to sleep soundly, and I smelled something fowl. I clutched my Counter Assault Bear Spray and listened. I didn’t hear anything. My mind was spinning now, hoping my new bike was not getting molested by a hungry grizzley.
What would I do if a bear had found it?
What about all the money I just spent on the bike and equipment?
How long would it take to walk to the highway in my bike shoes?
Where was my wallet?
All these unanswerable questions, the fear, the not knowing what was real and what my fatigued brain was conjuring up? I was panicking but tried to ignore the pungent bear smell and my fear! I struggled to tamp down the thoughts, and minutes later I was asleep. I woke up at 6:30.
I lay there, still in my bivy. Wet from head to toe with condensation. I rolled over and accidentally farted. When the smell hit my nostrils a realization washes over me with relief. That “bear” I smelled - that funk that made me so scared - that was me! I was smelling myself! Gross, I know.
My memory transported me to 1983. I was a tween, living in the Inland Empire, CA. I had brought home a stray dog and named him Norman. As my parents called the number on his tags, Norman wandered through the house, down the hall and into my bedroom. By the time I realized where he was, he had thrown up on my floor. I examined it from a distance and gagged as I went to fetch cleaning supplies. I was disgusted and hoped I could clean it up without losing my lunch. I cautiously approached the pile with a wad of paper towels and tried to scoop it up. The whole pile moved as a solid mass! I poked at it with a paper towel-covered finger. It moved again! I had to laugh as the truth was revealed. The pile of vomit was actually an abalone shell that Norman apparently carried from a shelf in the living room to my bedroom and left it upside down on my carpet. The mind, my mind at least, gets fooled easily and cannot be trusted. Norman and the abalone shell is still a lesson I am learning.
I climbed out of my wet bivy, packed up and wearily rode to Seeley Lake. Along the way I ate a cinnamon roll I had stashed in my bike bag and dreamed of coffee. I got pretty introspective as I pedaled along. I realized my mind was more easily tricked because of the exhaustion, but I also wondered what was real, what I imagine, how would other people interpret the same situations and how would their reality differ from mine? Perhaps that’s best left for another post. The conclusion I landed on is best summed up from a bumper sticker I spotted recently. “Don’t believe what you think.”
