Fire, Oatmeal, Coffee, and Perfection

Fire, Oatmeal, Coffee and Perfection

John Paul Derryberry

There was a slight breeze coming through the pine trees surrounding our campsite. It cooled the campsite, nestled between two lakes, just enough for me to inch my camp chair closer to the morning fire. My five-year-old golden doodle, Marv, was already pacing around the campsite wondering why we weren't all excited as he was to hike the 13 miles we had on our agenda. My baby girls were with their loving grandparents for the weekend, and my wife was starting to break camp. Me, I refused to leave the moment, a moment we had earned, and I wanted to remember forever. 

The super lightweight camp chair, made for trips like these, engulfed me with as much comfort as one can find the morning after a ten-mile hike carrying 40 pounds on your back. The spoon I was carrying around with me in my mouth was ready to sink into the cinnamon and spice oatmeal I had just cooked up.  The fire flickered and small amounts of ash landed in the oatmeal pot. With this being my 12th backpacking trip, I understood that ash from the wood-burning was just extra seasoning. The brewed cup of coffee sat to my right cooling down just a little before I gave my body the jolt it needed to break down camp and be on the trail a little before nine. 

It was 7 am, and I got to sleep in on a backpacking trip for a whole extra hour. My young girls have me up about 6 a.m. every day these days. I never thought I would find the extra sleep I was missing inside a tent on rough ground, but it's always the last place you look.  I lingered longer by the fire, sipping my coffee longer than my partners. The oatmeal and coffee wiped away the morning chills, and the smile on my face grew and grew. One of my hiking partners, as they cleaned up their breakfast, said, "You look so content right now." I shook my head in agreement, sipped my coffee, and replied, "This moment right here is a place I want to linger in for a while." So I did, for as long as possible. 

I watched the small fire flicker. I watched my dog bounce around. I smelled the coffee and watched the sunrise come above the tree line. We all worry about change all the time and, boy, my life has changed. We often forget how amazing change can be, how freeing it can be to shed stress, a past role, past experiences, and move into a different phase of life. When we realize we are in a better place, a happier place all the stress seems forgotten. Working in the mental health field, I see too many linger in their worst moments instead of hanging around in their best. 

So while everyone else prepped for the 13-mile hike with glorious views, I breathed in and out slowly, took a sip of coffee, licked the last bit of oatmeal off the spoon, and lingered in a happy, fulfilling, earned moment. I wanted to bathe in its glow, to understand that the hard work was worth it, to remember that my wife and I had captured joy, even if for a moment. We touched what so many others spend a lifetime searching for. Why, oh why, does our culture not teach us to linger in these moments for as long as possible?

The last sip of coffee goes down. I stand up from the chair, but the smile remains. The moment is forever etched in the memory banks, 9/1/2019, at a campsite in northwest Wisconsin on the Ice-Age Trail around 7:45 a.m. Life is perfect. I smartly linger at the moment long enough for it to become a trusted friend I can return to when times get rough again, a memory of how great life can be. We all need these reminders from time to time. I break down the chair, the tent and secure the now 38-pound pack to my back for the day's hike. I found what I was looking for. I hope you do, too. We begin the trek anew, searching for the next great moment. Maybe it's around the bend. Perhaps it's a hundred-mile journey. But it's always worth the trip.