Chapter 3: Lauds
The point of all this ketotic nonsense is that after the whole Grand Canyon fiasco (and it was quite a dramatic series of events, I am not afraid to admit) Ben stopped rolling his eyes when I said I was hungry. He respected the delicate needs of my body. Wherever we were, if I mentioned that I felt a bit peckish, Ben was there with a sandwich. First thing in the morning, I mention an empty stomach and he had a full Sunday brunch within moments. We had learned our lesson.
So much so that when we woke up at 6:15a on the second day of our adventure and found only one protein bar, one apple that we had thrown in the woods because a chipmunk nibbled on it, and two bags of uneaten instant backpacking dinners, we were only moderately amused. Ben started to get that worried look in his eye again — one I hadn’t seen since I was babbling about mules the year before. This was not how we had planned to begin our second day of riding on the greatest trip of all time.
Granted: we only needed to go thirty miles before we were at Mount Rainier and could get to the lodge and buy ourselves some snack food. Granted: Ben and I knew that I could, at least, last for about three days without food while continuing to maintain high levels of physical output (if the Grand Canyon had taught us nothing else, I did learn the extent to which I am capable of pushing my body before organ failure). Granted: even with all these things in our favor, it still wasn’t great. We should have known better.
“How did this happen?” I asked, raising my arms to the heavens. “How? With our lists? Our preparations? Our careful food shopping the day before? How could we wake up without food?”
Ben had no answer. Neither did I. We thought there would be roadside diners every ten miles and there weren’t. And so we were miserable.
I was hungry for food; I was hungry for love; and I was wearing damp biking gear on a cold sunless morning.
DAMON: June 24th, first thing in the morning, 6:15. Ben and I were up early. No rain. Beautiful night. It’s clear again today — although it is a little hazy perhaps. Our clothes did not dry, tent’s a little wet, but we’re already getting packed up. We’re out of food. Absolutely no food. We need: food. Food, food; food, food, food, food. That’s all we’re thinking about, in fact, is food. We’re nibbling on dessert snacks and other useless items. Trying to supplement our bodies with a little bit of calories. But: we only have about twenty-five miles to go today. Hopefully there will be some food between there and then otherwise we are going to go farther until we find food. End of note.
I first noticed that Ben was different from the other little boys in our class when he consistently volunteered to get the football out of the briar patches whenever we lost it there. If he wasn’t around, everyone sort of stood about, looking at one another, until someone suggested another sport we could play. If Benjamin was present, however, there was no hesitation.
“Got it,” he would say, and then he would take a running leap and dive head first into the briar patch. The sound of crashing sticks and distraught animals would emerge and then, soon after, Ben would crawl out, bleeding and dirty, and say:
“Let’s play.”
He earned the moniker: Bushwhacker Ben, which I maintained — for different reasons, though — throughout his adolescence.
It has nothing to do with Ben being masochistic. At least, I don’t think it does. Instead, I think it has to do with Ben not wanting anything to get in the way of having a good time. We were playing football and having fun; the ball was gone which meant no more fun; solution: go digging for it. Problem solved. End of discussion. No need to worry. If you won’t get it, Ben will. It didn’t matter that it was inconvenient. It didn’t matter that it hurt. Ben always wanted to keep playing.
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