Kroka 2008: Update    2/7/08

    As we are sitting in our dry tent warm bowls of soup are being passed around and we are reflecting upon the past week. So much has happened since our last update.

    Mary Stuart, the storyteller came to our yurt the day before leaving on the trail. She talked rapidly spewing descriptions as her story flowed from one thing to the next. She told us stories of her own life and stories of Africa talking about her father and her home and an African boy who was seeking wisdom. Then she asked us to listen to each other’s stories without judgment and without thinking about what we would say when our partner was done speaking.

    Later that night we packed our packs with our entire trail gear and food, organizing it so the pack was smooth like an overstuffed sausage. It had to fit each person with precision by adjusting the many straps.

    The next day we were on the trail.  Every day we skied through narrow woods with trails going down hills in excitement or in fear. We wove our way through trees and charged through brush making it to the bottom with a smile of triumph or a trail of fall marks. Our backpack was a challenge, using its momentum to fling us from one side to the other. We glided over vast frozen lakes isolated by sheer open space and encompassed in a flurry of snowflakes. The rhythm of our bodies became fluent with our breath sounds and feelings, blurring together and creating something endless, our body moving by itself. Our pack, our hardy Kroka crew flowed like a stream through trees leaving imprinted streaks in crusty or soft snow. One person is pulling the sled, which carries the strove and the cook kit. Pulling like a mule up hills working harder then all the others and being extra cautious down slopes, in watchfulness that the sled doesn’t catch and jerk them backwards. We skied always onward beneath blue and gray skies.

    When we became weary we stopped for quick breaks. Congregating as a group we pass around thermoses and eat from our personal Ziploc of day food. It’s contents: a biscuit, cheese, jerky, peanuts, raisins, seeds, brazil nuts, walnuts, chocolate chips and sweet birdseed bars. Every handful is a different and wonderful medley of snacks. While munching our navigator John informs us of the topography we would ski upon and the distance that needed to be covered.

    By 4 o’clock our packs are sagging from our shoulders, and getting up from a fall takes some time. We search for a camp; diverging from the trail we are bestowed with a beautiful site each night. By beaver ponds and in evergreen forests, each site has the things to suite our needs with dry wood, soft springy bows, and flat space to expand our tent. When arriving at our camp we set to work at gathering evergreen boughs to create our scented, springy floor, set our tent and equip it with our stove and clothes line. We saw and chop wood to keep us warm and provide cooking heat. Every campsite had these assets and we take them with gratitude. The woods have all we need to be comfortable in our moving home.

    When the evening’s work is done and our home is equipped and cozy we gather around in a circle and have a community-oriented supper, passing bowls around the circle as the cook is serving heaping portions. When everyone is served we eat with gusto, as food tastes better and feels more deserved when you have worked hard the day through. There seems to always be the perfect amount of food and after seconds or thirds, for the members of our crew with larger appetites, we drink tea made from forest teas like hemlock boughs and the Chaga mushroom. As we sip our woodland brews we go around the circle and speak our thought about the day and how we are feeling. We call this our evening hula. It is late and we are weary, we slip into our warm sleeping bags and sandwiched between each other Chris reads to us of a boy named Little Tree who was raised by Cherokee parents. Then we sleep. Blessed sleep.    

    Chris wakes before us in the morning and starts a fire to warm the tent, he sings us awake. Then the cooks for the day cook breakfast and everyone else packs up gear. After a sloshing full bowl of breakfast, which is usually some sort of grain with sausage from the pig we slaughtered and fresh biscuits, we pack up the tent and disperse of boughs leaning them in piles up against logs to create homes for rabbits. When all is packed and the evidence of our passing is minimized we may have a lesson about trees, how to identify them and their many gifts. By 10 o’clock we say goodbye to our home and ski back on the trail, brave explorers pursuing further towards their final destination – the Canadian border.

    Personal report: Jed, our hygiene queen is making us wash our hands before every meal. Taylor has been the keeper of the daily job wheel, always reminding us what our jobs are. Solina bravely barged through downhills and crashed less and less until finally she defied a particularly challenging hill and was one of the last standing. Celeste was always doing what was needed with determination and enjoying the wonders of nature. Jesse got a cold but never lost his giggly manner. William charged up hills with speed and stamina of an Olympic runner. Nick pulled the sled in a tank top up a long, long hill. Eric inhaled 4 bowls of mac and cheese with jerky and vegetables with the everlasting grin on his face. John bestowed us with truthfulness at every hula. And I, Joey, became the down hill demon charging down hills with fearlessness of a bull and soaring off bumps.

    The week was fresh and new. It was peaceful and the trees and the wind serenaded every day. The group is in good standings and getting along well. We are becoming accustomed to our free nomadic life.

For the Vermont semester this is Joey Becker.