Rest & Restoration
The friendly traditions of fall.
Rituals are the formulas by which harmony is restored. —Mitch Albom
Fall is a season of tradition. For some, that means a shoulder-season canoe trip in Yellowstone. For others, it’s a trail-running road-trip once the smoke has cleared but the snow is yet to fall—the destination a new skyline, a set of peaks begging for exploration. For others still, the changing of the seasons can only mean one thing: hunting camp—its arrival anticipated since the season prior, its presence marked on the calendar equally as long.
Regardless of the reason, these traditions bring together friends from afar for one last hurrah before winter sets in. They may only see each other once a year, but for that week they’re packed in close quarters: sharing a wall tent, a truck bed, or a backpacking shelter for days on end, catching up on the last 12 months—new relationships and failed relationships, new jobs and bad jobs, friends and family married or dying, health issues and injuries, and the same running jokes picking up where they left off the year before.
Whiskey bottles are passed around a little too late, and sunrise alarms are substituted with lazy camp mornings.
Everything else in life is put on pause. Laptops are left at home, cell phones are turned off, and any nagging laments are divulged, then put to rest—at least temporarily. For now, focus turns to the tasks ahead: miles to paddle, peaks to bag, animals to stalk. Together, the friends wake up with the sun, make coffee, and plan the day ahead. Maps are scoured, ideas are tossed around, cigarettes and joints are lit—all without urgency. Things will happen when they happen, the objectives secondary to simply being outside together, living the good life.
Sometimes, things go according to plan. Camps are hit on time and on schedule, animals are shot opening morning in idyllic alpine meadows, and mountains are summited at first light. Other times, the path deviates. Whiskey bottles are passed around a little too late, and sunrise alarms are substituted with lazy camp mornings; or a gut feeling forces the group to stick it out in a basin devoid of animal life just one more day—the elk are on their way.
Hair is unkempt and greasy to the touch, but everyone agrees it feels good. They all take one last stop at a river to dive in.
No matter, though, at the end of the week, the friends pile back into vehicles for the drive home. Hair is unkempt and greasy to the touch, but everyone agrees it feels good. They all take one last stop at a river to dive in. The waters are cold now, but everyone swims—it’s the last chance until spring. Back on the road, the merry crew listens to the song of the week—maybe a foot-tapping pop-country tune, a classic-rock ballad, or rap lyrics stuck in everyone’s head. If a small-town karaoke bar is open, they’ll stop; if not, they’ll make their own entertainment as they continue on their way.
Once at home, the friends return to their lives: sometimes at peace with their positions, other times invigorated to make a change—to leave a crappy basement apartment, to change careers, or to move to a new place altogether. But a year from now, they’ll be back together—maybe in the same place, maybe elsewhere—all with another year of life under their belts. They will be the same, yet different people, and they’ll be there for each other next year, and the year after, ready to put the rest of life on hold for a week—to restore themselves, to regain their harmony, to re-live those glorious traditions of the fall.
