My Constant

I'm no poet so I won't subject you to a true ode, however I feel my backpack deserves a certain amount of praise, so it will be done in a medium in which I am more comfortable, namely, writing.

I (my family) bought this Lowe Alpine backpack in 2003, when I was a mere 13 years old. I was signed up for a backcountry backpacking trip through Canada with a teen outdoors group called Adventures Cross Country. My only mountainous experience was that of hiking the glorified hill that lived behind my house, so needless to say, I was scared of this trip. But I had my backpack, all 60 pounds of it when it was filled. When the trip came to its conclusion, I went back home with my only friend stuffed down in the cargo hold of that 747. Even though I was a pain and kind of mean to everybody and therefore unable to make friends, my backpack always looked the other way and forgave me, despite my bad attitude.

When I was able to reflect on my trip to Canada I was also able to get over myself, and go on a trip to Southern Europe the following summer, carrying with me the same red and black acquaintaince that had kept me company in Canada. Sometimes I had a love/hate relationship with the thing; when the straps became frayed or it pulled me back towards the shark's teeth rocks at the bottom of a gulley while I clutched the side of a slick cliff I wanted to toss the sack of cloth, but when I realized it could help me carry around a month's worth of supplies with minimal effort, I truly loved it.

My backpack still smells of the trail mix and pine needles of that first summer in Canada, even as I use it for the fourth time while going through Europe, and I find it comforting. Even though some straps are broken and there is a lock on the shoulder whose combination I can't seem to recall and crown-like day bag has mysteriously disappeared, I still consider it like a friend to me. Now that I am using the backpack while I travel alone, our relationship has really been taken to the next level. On my previous trips I was able to rely on other teenagers for companionship, but now I find myself snuggling into my backpack as it's many straps give me a hug, desperate for some kind of physical contact. When I pull it down from the overhead storage of a train car and clasp the arms underneath my throat and around my hips, I feel at home in a constantly shifting environment.

I know this dynamic could easily change once I am joined by my boyfriend this Saturday, and I no longer need to look to an inanimate object for friendship, however I can still see myself silently rejoicing in the hug of my Lowe Alpine, the backpack that has accompanied me across the world without complaint, and has always been my constant.