Gutsy Guava #1
“They say that there is a slim possibility that frequencies humans cannot hear affect them anyways, in such a way that if you get headaches, feel anxious, or aggressive, it could be a high frequency noise out of your hearing range”, Said my friend Gabe from behind tired, bloodshot eyes. “Supposedly it can drive people to the edge”. I turned to look at him and retorted, “Perfect, so if I kill you now it can be written off as beyond my control”. He only rolled his eyes.
We were in a tent, along with some other friends of ours, perched on what can only be described as a small cliff high in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Several travel guides (along to make sure we didn’t kill each other, or ourselves out in the wilderness) were near the base huddled in their own nylon canopies. The mosquitoes that had descended upon us with what can only be described as biblical fury were so thick and plentiful that the echoes of their buzzing reverberated throughout the valley we had waited in for 3 days and nights. The concept was that this trip was a bonding experience for us, before we all took off for school, to bring us closer together. The field-tested idea related more to a death march in summertime Vietnam. On roughly day one, we had left in high spirits and good company looking forward to a week of good times. By day three, the ridiculous mosquito population had caused us to leave a planned route to the overall destination and hike up and over a nearby mountain range into a chaparral-plateau-purgatory like set of cliffs at a high enough altitude that some of us had trouble breathing. Then, we waited. As it happens, this was an exercise in futility, as the insects we were running from had no problem following us all the way to this newfound exile and hovering in wait. For three days.
“You know, in a way this is better than anything else,” another tent mate named Lucas said. “Remember those Vietnam veterans who came back from the war all bonded, and friendly and such? We could be like that!” Toby, a former classmate of mine who had an aversion to even leaving his house for very long sat up, aghast: “sure, and remember that little post-traumatic stress disorder deal? Permanent psychological damage? Ringing any bells?” Nev, the fifth person we had managed to fit into a 3-man tent turned to look at him and simply raised his eyebrows. At this point I was fully steeled for another argument about the physiological requirements for Post-Traumatic stress disorder (yes, another argument. We had spent roughly 36 hours in a tent at this point), when a loud “ziiip” interrupted the thought.
The collective intake of breath was so comical I actually laughed before realizing that the tent door had just opened. For the past three days, “do not open the tent door” had been the first and second rules of fight club. It had been the maxim, the motto, and the divine law. You just didn’t do it, unless the circumstances were dire, and almost nothing qualified as “dire”. If one were to open this door, the mosquitoes would pour in like sand through a sieve, at a frightening rate. Nev actually had almost 200 mosquito bites on his body because of this. We had learned quickly that this was not a fun state to be in. so we were all surprised when the eminent onslaught did not commence. Instead, Casey, a guide, poked his head in with a crazed look in his eyes and asked us to come out, while we had the time. Instead of doing what out minds had been reprogrammed to do and ripping the door closed, most all of us complied with his wishes after a quick peek around, and not noting any insect laden airspace.
Not only was the air finally free of the accursed creatures, but also the sky was fully illuminated with stars and the moon, burning brightly down. Casey stretched his arms outwards and yawned, while explaining that for whatever reason there weren’t any bugs out for the first time in 3 straight days. Almost immediately, the mood improved notably. A roaring (sure, this sounds cliché. But that’s because you didn’t see this fire. It roared, like an angry demon or something. It looked like we just lit a small tree on fire and threw more branches on top of that) fire was quickly constructed, and conversation started up. During these hours, I got to know several individuals I had been with my whole life better than I had ever known them before. The fact that we had spent three days in misery, were sore to the bone, and in the middle of nowhere all slid away, and what was left after that was amazing. The fire flickered over our faces and silhouettes, straight through until morning when the sun rose. And the bonds that formed that night were forged there, in that fire, only to go unspoken of as we walked out.
I rarely see any of the people I spent a week on a cliff with anymore, having gone our separate ways. However when I do, the bond is undeniable. I have very little compassion or sentiment regarding people I don’t know well, but this is different. Maybe it is that “prison camp” aspect of things, or the level of relief we all felt that night. But the end of it is simple, as simple as anything can be, because it’s not a matter of “having a bonding experience” that you can look back on fondly, it’s the little things. The people involved. The shape of the rock you sat on all night. The things you said. Because when it’s all over, that’s all you remember anyway.
We were in a tent, along with some other friends of ours, perched on what can only be described as a small cliff high in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Several travel guides (along to make sure we didn’t kill each other, or ourselves out in the wilderness) were near the base huddled in their own nylon canopies. The mosquitoes that had descended upon us with what can only be described as biblical fury were so thick and plentiful that the echoes of their buzzing reverberated throughout the valley we had waited in for 3 days and nights. The concept was that this trip was a bonding experience for us, before we all took off for school, to bring us closer together. The field-tested idea related more to a death march in summertime Vietnam. On roughly day one, we had left in high spirits and good company looking forward to a week of good times. By day three, the ridiculous mosquito population had caused us to leave a planned route to the overall destination and hike up and over a nearby mountain range into a chaparral-plateau-purgatory like set of cliffs at a high enough altitude that some of us had trouble breathing. Then, we waited. As it happens, this was an exercise in futility, as the insects we were running from had no problem following us all the way to this newfound exile and hovering in wait. For three days.
“You know, in a way this is better than anything else,” another tent mate named Lucas said. “Remember those Vietnam veterans who came back from the war all bonded, and friendly and such? We could be like that!” Toby, a former classmate of mine who had an aversion to even leaving his house for very long sat up, aghast: “sure, and remember that little post-traumatic stress disorder deal? Permanent psychological damage? Ringing any bells?” Nev, the fifth person we had managed to fit into a 3-man tent turned to look at him and simply raised his eyebrows. At this point I was fully steeled for another argument about the physiological requirements for Post-Traumatic stress disorder (yes, another argument. We had spent roughly 36 hours in a tent at this point), when a loud “ziiip” interrupted the thought.
The collective intake of breath was so comical I actually laughed before realizing that the tent door had just opened. For the past three days, “do not open the tent door” had been the first and second rules of fight club. It had been the maxim, the motto, and the divine law. You just didn’t do it, unless the circumstances were dire, and almost nothing qualified as “dire”. If one were to open this door, the mosquitoes would pour in like sand through a sieve, at a frightening rate. Nev actually had almost 200 mosquito bites on his body because of this. We had learned quickly that this was not a fun state to be in. so we were all surprised when the eminent onslaught did not commence. Instead, Casey, a guide, poked his head in with a crazed look in his eyes and asked us to come out, while we had the time. Instead of doing what out minds had been reprogrammed to do and ripping the door closed, most all of us complied with his wishes after a quick peek around, and not noting any insect laden airspace.
Not only was the air finally free of the accursed creatures, but also the sky was fully illuminated with stars and the moon, burning brightly down. Casey stretched his arms outwards and yawned, while explaining that for whatever reason there weren’t any bugs out for the first time in 3 straight days. Almost immediately, the mood improved notably. A roaring (sure, this sounds cliché. But that’s because you didn’t see this fire. It roared, like an angry demon or something. It looked like we just lit a small tree on fire and threw more branches on top of that) fire was quickly constructed, and conversation started up. During these hours, I got to know several individuals I had been with my whole life better than I had ever known them before. The fact that we had spent three days in misery, were sore to the bone, and in the middle of nowhere all slid away, and what was left after that was amazing. The fire flickered over our faces and silhouettes, straight through until morning when the sun rose. And the bonds that formed that night were forged there, in that fire, only to go unspoken of as we walked out.
I rarely see any of the people I spent a week on a cliff with anymore, having gone our separate ways. However when I do, the bond is undeniable. I have very little compassion or sentiment regarding people I don’t know well, but this is different. Maybe it is that “prison camp” aspect of things, or the level of relief we all felt that night. But the end of it is simple, as simple as anything can be, because it’s not a matter of “having a bonding experience” that you can look back on fondly, it’s the little things. The people involved. The shape of the rock you sat on all night. The things you said. Because when it’s all over, that’s all you remember anyway.
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