Countless centuries' worth of depictions of the anatomy of the homo sapiens have invariably neglected one crucial organ - an organ so important that it is in large part responsible for our evolution from hapless apes to lords of the earth. The human being is not complete without his cave. Huddling beneath shelter, we have hidden from the elements, from rabid and feral predators, and, of course, from one another, practically since the dawn of time. And as man has evolved, so has the cave. Its modern incarnation is multi-storied and multi-roomed, filled with lavish furniture, caressed by sterile, conditioned air, populated by entertainment machines. It bears little resemblance to its progenitors. And yet, despite so many formal innovations, its purpose has not evolved a bit.
The question of outdoorsmanship immediately leads us to this truth: it has been the compromise man has made between exposing himself to the elements and hiding in his warren of caves that has produced his evolution. Too much adversity, and the species might have fallen extinct millenia ago. Too little challenge, and we would possess little in the way of intelligence and creativity, ruled instead by primitive instincts.
I can't help but wonder if the archetypal avid camper, his pack replete with provisions and gadgets, has lost sight of this. Camping, hunting, hiking - these provide us some of the few exits from the vast network of caves modern man has built for himself. Sheltered within our ordered societies, we are, no doubt, subjected to new pressures which shape us and help us grow, but the challenges rendered to us by the natural world are timelessly important.
Outdoors adventurers have to evaluate these questions if they want to mine every bit of opportunity from the excursions they plan. If you bring a small gas stove, you may not find the chance to learn to make a cooking fire. If you bring pillows, you may not learn to adjust to sleeping discomfort. If you carry a compass, you may fail to attune yourself to other sources of navigational information.
As mentioned earlier, though, it has always been a compromise. Unless you plan on running from or fighting bears, you may want animal repellants of some kind. The idea is not to expose oneself to so much danger that death is perpetually imminent. The goal is rather to toughen one's constitution, expand one's abilities, and strengthen one's mind.
Descend from the abstract to the concrete: let me expound upon a recent trip of mine.
This past March, I traveled to the island of Kauai, the second oldest island in the Hawaiian island chain. I hiked eleven miles through rough, mountainous terrain, some stretches of the train almost invisible from weathering. In eight hours, I arrived at Kalalau Valley, a vibrantly lush trench between the towering mountains. I stayed for twelve days.
For this trip, I packed a small tent, a sleeping bag, several sacks of nuts and dried fruit, a package of quinoa, a water bottle, a headlamp, a small pan, and one extra shirt. For twelve days, I lived off of these meager provisions. Upon returning to civilizations, I was, of course, overjoyed to wear clean clothes and eat something besides hard, dried ration-like food. But, that said, the experiences that resulted from doing without were probably some of the most valuable of my life.
Without navigational gadgetry, I learned the layout of the valley much more quickly, and was able to find my way about in the dark with only the headlamp for illumination. Without a lighter or a gas stove, I learned to cook with only matches, leaves, wood, and my small pan. Without an array of edibles, I learned to decenter food in my day-to-day life - a hell of a feat for someone who loves food as much as I do.
This brings me to the broader point. The lessons conveyed by an experience like this often transcend the learning of simple outdoor survival skills. They mold the very core of one's personality. When forced to do without, one finds oneself learning the limitations that life in civilization has placed upon one. Luxuries of various and sundry kinds stifle one's inner strength of mind, and one's peace comes to rest upon a constant influx of these luxuries. Without them, one is forced to develop new extensions of one's personality in order to compensate for the voids left behind. As I explained, I love food. I also love social activities, complex modern music, and art. I had none of these in satisfactory forms while in the jungle. As a result, I found myself developing new inner mental routines - a growing appreciation for the aesthetics of nature, and of my own body and mind, as well as a feeling of deeper connection with the divine (who probably taps his/her/its foot as we distract ourselves endlessly with silly pursuits while existing in society).
Aside from luxuries, civilization imposes burdens upon us as well. I did without any kind of timekeeping device while in the jungle. The freedom from spatialized, metered, ever-dwindling time gave me a sense of peace I had never experienced. I found my sense of time expanding and contracting with the sorts of activities I was engaged in at any given time. I came to appreciate my body's response to the natural light cycle - my sleep has never been more refreshing, despite sleeping with no pillow on a thin sleeping bag in chilly temperatures. In the absence of the burden of exact time, I no longer felt any sense of urgency. Without urgency, the mind stops prioritizing activities in terms of their perceived value; one simply does whatever comes one's way. A deep connection with the intricacies of nature (which we might previously have considered irrelevancies and minutiae) results.
This is not to brag - I am no expert outdoorsman, and I could have made my trip with even less, with much likelihood. But it illustrates, if I have done my job with any skill at all, the extent to which confronting adversity and difficulty head-on in the natural world can forge us in fire. I beseech you to attempt the same. But you can't wait until the opportunity arises - you must generate that opportunity yourself.
