I'm not much for mysticism. I figure most things that are considered otherworldly or spiritual are most likely a byproduct of our minds attempting to make sense out of something we don't fully understand. When we wake up in a dark room and could swear that the towel hanging on the door was a burglar, well, that's our brain filling in information we don't have, even if it's inaccurate. Evolution brilliantly fashioned our gray matter to jump to conclusions, even false ones, since not jumping to these conclusions is significantly more hazardous to our ability to pass on our genes: we're better off thinking a towel is a burglar than thinking a burglar is a towel.As far as I'm concerned, fairies, ghosts, angels, spirits, and gods can be chalked up to this, our incredible imaginations, our primitive, self-defensive assumptions. When people speak of a place being "magical" or having "energy", I tend to tune out.
But walking the quiet paths of Bumpkin Island as the sun sets, I question my philosophy... just a little. It's the kind of place that seems to want you there; when you walk, it's as if the ground is imperceptibly giving way under each footfall, carrying you along like a moving sidewalk at an airport. The air is fresh and smells clean. Boston is small and sits on the horizon as harmless as half-submerged reeds at high tide. The troubles of the city seem stupid and old and far away.
The ferry from Boston to George's Island was right on time, as usual, but the bright yellow water taxi that connects George's to Bumpkin was late by almost three hours. But no matter; I was out of the city, and though George's island has become a bit more polished and "family-friendly" of late, it's still a great place to sit in the sun and salty breeze and kill a few hours reading. The metronomic drums and wild singing of the Native American Summer Festival drifted from the north field and inspired a fleeting fantasy about discovering an unexplored island and a exotic indigenous culture.
After the taxi finally finished moving folks around from Hull and Spectacle Island, it shuttled me from George's through Hull Gut, a quick trip of about ten minutes. As I climbed onto the bobbing Bumpkin pier and followed it to shore, the peaceful solitude of the island enveloped me like a warm bath. I hiked up the soft, winding path with my pack and tent toward my campsite, greeted by meadow voles and catbirds and a red-tailed hawk with a very unfortunate looking mouse in its talons.
Camping, and being out in nature generally, has always been appealing to me. My favorite thing to do as a kid was strap on the old canteen and embark, usually alone, into what little forest hadn't been eaten up by suburban development around our neighborhood. I remember how pissed I'd be when I'd climb that hill or round that bend and another string of framed-out houses shattered whatever wilderness fantasy I was having. As the years passed, it got smaller: the trek through the woods before the sinking disappointment of the sight of a bulldozer.Rugged camping in a spot like Bumpkin (there are no amenities besides a composting toilet; you have to carry in all water and food) makes us reject the ludicrous myth of "multi-tasking" and usually leads to the question: why do we spend time the way we do? If you want to eat a hot meal, you have to gather firewood, transport the wood to the pit. Separate kindling from the medium and large size sticks, gather up a little paper to get it going. Stoke the fire for a while, gets some coals going, and start to cook. It can be a several hour affair.
Back in "normal life", we try to cook as quickly as possible, maybe pick something up on the way home. To save time for what? Leisure, I guess, which usually involves something like watching TV or surfing the internet. But when you're camping, the act of preparing, cooking, and eating a meal is the leisure. And for me, it's a lot more satisfying, and I try to keep that in mind in my day to day. The pleasure is in the work.
As the sun went down, out on the gravelly spit that points across the bay toward Hull, DCR rangers Nathan and Colleen and I built a fire and cooked a hearty meal of veggie burgers with onion and jalapeño, a roasted zucchini, Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs cooked in a little steel camping pot, and popcorn (in a popper Colleen brilliantly constructed from an old pie plate and a coat hanger). We talked about travel, music, relationships; where we've come from and where we hope to go.And the spirits that live on Bumpkin, the children with polio who lived in the yellow brick hospital, now scattered ruins; the soldiers who served on the island during World War I; the farmers who leased the land to grow food for the nearby residents of Boston; these spirits were around too, quiet, enjoying the night air, crackling fire, and jovial conversation.
At least I'd like to think they were.
