BooOOOOOcycle Camping

Since it’s Halloween I figured I’d post something about what it’s like to sleep in a grave. It has a ghost in it, kinda.

I am camping in a grave tonight, kinda. My tent measures 32 by 85 inches, almost exactly the standard size of a grave. At its highest point it’s 42 inches tall, just shy of regulation grave depth. (Turns out we go four feet under, not six.) So I don’t sleep in a grave, but I do sleep in a roughly grave-sized asymmetrical dome, and it has taught me some things.

First, this is one hilly country. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve found a 32-by-85-inch patch of ground that’s actually level. Most nights I have to choose which incline I want to sleep on.

Second, it’s spooky how easy it is to lose things in so small a space. Everything in the tent is within arm’s reach, yet somehow losing things is inevitable. You take out your toothbrush, you set it down, you grab your toothpaste, and the toothbrush is gone.

Now, no braggies but I’m better at losing things than anybody I know. I once dropped my car keys, heard them hit right next to my foot, and in the half-second it took me to look down they had vanished. (A freakish ricochet: I eventually found them under a backpack several feet away.) If only there were a way to use this super power to fight crime.

But even by my standards, losing something inches away from you, something that cannot possibly have escaped your zipped-up little world, something you should be able to keep track of because dammit you only have like ten things in here… it’s maddening.

Compounding that frustration is the fact that you need this lost thing. All the non-essentials have already been pared away.  Except, okay, I’ll grant you the ukulele doesn’t qualify as essential. But the uke isn’t what disappears. What disappears is your medicine, your battery charger, that banana you were going to have as your midnight snack. You got it out specifically because you needed it and now it’s gone.

Here’s why: a tent is full of slippery surfaces—think sleeping bag, bedroll, puffy coat—and your headlamp casts shadows at weird angles. Sitting cross-legged, anything you set next to you is in a blind spot because of the way the shadows fall. And anything you set in your lap slides all too easily into a blind spot.

The guy who helped me solve this problem was Confucius. He placed great importance on rituals, and I have taken to handling my possessions with Confucian ritualism. When you set anything down, it’s at arm’s length. (Different colored surface too, if you can.) Glasses and headlamp always go in the little gear pouch next to the door, and nothing else goes in there. Never set down an uncapped pen or an unfolded knife. (Pointy things kill bedrolls, tent walls, etc.) Make tea first, then soup, then dinner. (Progressively stronger flavors. Otherwise your tea tastes like dinner.) And so on.

Ritualistic care extends beyond the tent too. Tent stakes go in the ground or in their bag, that’s it. (Little known fact: like the common house cat, tent stakes are only one generation removed from their feral state. Given the opportunity, they will run and hide.) Pack dry bags with hard stuff on the top or the bottom. (A soft waist makes it easier to strap down.) Never cook in an enclosed area (carbon monoxide) but since you are absolutely going to cook in an enclosed area (every climber I know does it) be right next your stove, ready to kill the flame the instant you feel groggy.

This isn’t advice, it’s a ritual. (If it were advice, it would be dangerous. You should definitely open your rainfly if you’re going to cook in your tent, no matter what the weather is doing.) Confucius suggests developing your own rituals, depending on what problems you’re trying to avoid—or, better, what kind of success you’re trying to set yourself up for. You know that scene in gangster movies where the FBI comes in and tosses the whole house looking for evidence? I got sick of doing that in my own tent. Much easier to get to sleep now that I have my ritual.

So there you have it: a Confucian camper is a happy camper. The spirit of Confucius coming to me in my grave-sized tent isn’t the scariest ghost story out there, but it’s all I’ve got. No scary stories like I had in Tassie, because the biking here is going unbelievably well. I rode 83 km today, shattering my previous record. Today also took me past the 500 km mark, a major accomplishment for Yours Truly. I’m bummed about not having a Halloween party to go to but happy to have another night in a hot spring, this time in Pukorokoro. Three nights in a row! I could get used to this.