Backpacking
Andrea Harwood

At the age of sixteen, I went backpacking with a group of friends in Big Sur. I did not get permission from my parents to go, and during the trip I fell and hit my head on a rock. I got home late in the afternoon and tried to hide where I had been and what I had done. This was very difficult because my left eye was swollen shut and the entire left side of my forehead was purple and sported a gash from hairline to brow. My sister saw me and acerbically asked, ìWhat happened to you, Cyclops?î ìAh, nothing much,î I replied while deftly hiding the left side of my face from my mother. I managed to get downstairs, and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. I took a look at my face in the bathroom mirror and realized there was no way I would be able to disguise the mess my face was in. If it had been a mere scratch or incidental bump I might have been able to get away with it. But the reality of the situation was that I had knocked my head directly on a large pointed rock while carrying a fully-loaded backpack, I had broken the skin, and my body was waging a full blown immunological response complete with swelling and changing of my skinís neutral hues.

I stared at my face in the mirror and tried to discern if I had a concussion. I remembered hearing that the pupils could take on different sizes in the event of a brain injury, but upon looking at my one open eye I realized I could only make a very inconclusive diagnosis. I didnít feel like I had a concussion, so I figured that wasnít at the top of my list of concerns.

Next I figured I needed to get myself cleaned up. I turned on the shower, peeled off my smoky, sweaty clothes and stepped into the stream of warm water. All was fine, until the water stung my face, and I realized how painful water could be on a wound. I felt my knees give way and my vision blur, as the pain reverberated from my head, down my spine, making my stomach clench and nausea rise. Recovering from a brown, starry haze, I straightened up and continued to clean myself off, getting my hair as clean as I could without further jostling my injury site. As I was drying myself off, I heard my motherís voice, ìYou have a lot of explaining to do,î which I knew only covered a fraction of what I really had to account for. First I had to explain sneaking away with my friends, the fact I had lied, and the apparent fact that I had chosen to do something that wasnít particularly safe.

Sixteen is an invincible age. I felt that I knew what was best for me, and looked at most adults as being clueless. Yet my internal voice cautioned that I had made an error in judgment, and I needed the help of my parents to clean up the mess I was in. For all I knew, I was going to be one-eyed for months.

I slowly opened the bathroom door to my motherís inquisitive face. She had the laundry hamper in hand and was about to offer to gather up my soiled clothes. She took one look at my face and burst into tears. My sister was behind her and helpfully added, ìI told you she wasnít at Carolís house this weekend.î Nothing like sibling loyalty. What followed was my mother picking up the pieces. She rushed me to Dr. Stoneís office for some quick stitches and an ice pack. She helped unpack my backpack and air out my sleeping bag. She grounded me for a couple of weeks, and I got ìthe talkî about being trustworthy, reliable and careful.

My dad never forgave me for my dishonesty but my mom quickly did. This of course was part of a much bigger pattern of acceptance and parenting style. My mom grew to appreciate my need for being out in the wilderness and supported my interests and mild wanderlust. I think what I learned from this experience is that honesty is a very important character trait, and one I had to actively learn. I also learned a bit about the elastic nature of love.