Honey, Please Don't Stop Your Talking

Here at Trek, staff members have one day off per week. If you are on Saturday rotation, your group obviously comes in on Saturday and leaves on Thursday. If you are on Sunday rotation, your group comes in on Sunday and departs on Friday. This means that Friday and Saturday are precious, precious days for those on each respective rotation.

I'm always confounded about what to do with my day off, but today I have decided to head to the world famous Patio Pancake Place, play a little football (soccer) with my good friend Payton McCollum at the Salida Park, and do a little laundry. I realize that this is quite possibly the most boring post that I have ever composed in the almost three years that I have written in this space, but when you spend a number of weeks living in a completely different atmosphere, the return to "civilization" is always a bit jarring.

For instance, after eating the same meal for the last three summers that I have worked here, the simple ability to choose which food I would like to eat on a daily basis is almost a paralyzing experience in those first few days after you finish up at Trek. Also, the ability to constantly head to the porcelain god or lay down in a bed becomes a luxury that you are incredibly thankful for on a daily basis. I'm not saying that Trek staffers develop the Tom Hanks in Castaway syndrome where we choose to sleep on the floor of the hotel room instead of the king-size bed, but to a certain extent you learn to deal with some of the minor hardships in life in a more evenhanded manner.

It doesn't necessarily matter that something falls on the floor before you eat it or that each mattress is not perfectly adjusted to your sleep number. You become thankful for the opportunity to head inside to escape the rain instead of running to a crewfly or your tent. In some small way, I become detached from the world when I return each week.

I do not watch the clouds as closely as I do on trail, nor do I sense each breath of wind that passes through the trees. Back here, I've learned to insulate myself from the churning rhythm of the earth. I'm ensconced in my small creature comforts and somehow I think I'm the worse for it.