March 2007
“Free Paper!”
“He’s not a very
good salesman,” I mutter to myself. “He didn’t even look at me.” As I pass, an
article about Utah groundwater disputes catches my attention; I’ve always had a
soft spot for aquifers. Despite the risk of smashing a passer-by with my
protrusive, stuffed-to-capacity, daypack, I whirl around in the crowded hallway
to face the Salt Lake Tribune
subscription pusher.
He
is perched on a long-legged stool, hunkered over dual stacks of his “free”
newspapers like a fisherman hovering above his hook. Now wanting the paper’s
weather report, I interrupt his sermon on the excellent annual rates “offered
exclusively to USU students.”
“Do
you deliver to PO boxes?”
“We
can deliver to your house or apartment.” Classic sales-speak: never admit that
you can’t do something, just answer a new question that you can say yes to.
“I
only have a PO box here in the TSC. I live outside.”
“Well
. . .” I can almost hear him wince as he realizes that the Trib isn’t able to deal with this particular contingency and that
I am going to get away with a free paper (as offered) but no subscription. “. .
. OK then, have a nice day.”
I
thank him politely and spin back into the flow of students with my paper, eager
to catch up on the “Western Water War.”
In an effort to expose myself to the natural
world, I live without walls, outside in the elements. Our beliefs are shaped by
what we experience and by the eyes through which we see those experiences.
After having lived a specific event, we incorporate it into our ideology with
comparisons and liaisons, boxes and bridges. We think: “good” or “bad,”
“possible” or “inapplicable.” These labels and groupings allow us to interpret
the world around us. They also can trap us if we don’t methodically challenge the
assumptions and lenses the world around us offers.
In the fall of
2003, due to increased costs of living, particularly of the non-monetary sort,
I decided to live outdoors. I wanted to explore, to see and better understand
my conditioning and true dependencies. I wanted to hear the deer tiptoe down
the limestone scree each evening. My skin wanted to touch the night air. I
wanted to know what I really needed and what I had just been taught to need.
College students
are generally curious and sociable. In most conversations the question
eventually comes up, “and you Ben, where do you live?” After admitting that I
“camp-out,” as levelheadedly as I can manage, the person I’m speaking with goes
all squinty-eyed, leans back and suspiciously contests my claim. “Nuh-uh.” I
try not to justify myself, instead relying on the silence to assert, in effect
“I can’t prove it to you, but yes, I really do live outside.” Once my
credibility is established, cascade of incredulous inquiries ensues. I’m always
grateful for these impromptu interrogators. Indeed, their questions reveal what
amenities, habits, and behaviors they consider to be the most indispensable.
“Where do you Shower?”
“. . . three,
four, five” I count the liquid hand-soap dispenser pumps. “Just enough for a
good washing.” My bare feet squeak on the tiled floor as I slide past the
toilet stalls to the tan, utilitarian shower room. Carefully cupping the
gelatinous detergent in my left hand and sheltering it behind my back, I pull
the unwieldy faucet and twist it all the way to the “H.” The pad of early
morning joggers percolates into the acoustically sensitive room from the indoor
track, mingling with a wetly whistled version of “Born on the Bayou.” I cock my
head to listen for the 6:30 wave of ROTC students. They always go straight for
the toilets. Using a urinal isn’t, in itself, inconsiderate, but the flush
chokes the usually robust shower-stream to a pitiful trickle, which is tepid
and inconvenient. Grateful for my solitude, I lather the rich, pink hand-soap into
my drenched hair. The shampoo industry is a crock.
Bathing is an
important behavior socially, hygienically, and psychologically. Since it
requires a highly specialized, even sophisticated dwelling, it was one of the
first issues I had to deal with in order to move outside. For $30.00 a semester
you can rent a brown 10” by 24” locker in the Field House. Though designed to
hold a towel and running shorts, it also fits books, shaving cream, a helmet,
biking shoes and a full wardrobe of clothes. One day, on the way to the
laundromat my friend Tommy told me, “You have fewer clothes than my 5 year old
has socks.” The Field House fee also
gives you access to a fresh, white towel. Once soiled, you simply toss it into
an oversized, wheeled hamper near the building’s north entrance and a friendly,
but professional, staff member hands you a new one.
A communal shower
eliminates my dependence on a personally-owned facility. It also connects me to
an unlikely, but delightful social network.
There is an odd
camaraderie between users of the shower-room. We see a lot of each other but
not very often. Most people go there once a day to lift weights, play
basketball or take a physical education course. Because the Field House serves
as my shower room and storage unit I go there considerably more frequently.
Whenever I want to go on a bike-ride or read from “Eco-Economy” for my
Watershed Science class, I have to pop into that steamy, tiled changing room.
The inordinate amount of time I spend there usually goes unnoticed since none
of the other “tenants” linger long enough to realize how consistently I’m
there. This phenomenon of anonymity, combined with the fact that people are
much less inquisitive when they’re naked, accounts for why I haven’t once been
asked why I have so much crap crammed into that high aluminum box in the wall.
“Where do you sleep?”
The crunch of
tennis shoes on gravel wrenches me from sleep. Hoping I’m far enough off the
trail not to be seen, I sink into my mummy-bag and try to blend into the
underbrush. Something smashes into my foot.
“Ooof! What the .
. .? Ah!”
The footsteps,
initially sluggish, now sprint off into the early morning mist.
“They should hire
me to rouse students every morning on their way to class; I bet that would
vastly improve participation in early-morning courses,” I chuckle to myself,
though I’m actually as worried as the poor girl who stepped on me. I quickly
roll up my gear, in case she returns, and briskly walk to the Field House where
my hot, dry towel awaits.
It takes me just over
three minutes to unfold my red tarp, unroll my orange, self-inflating pad, and
extract my blue and black sleeping bag from its tight compression sack. As far
as “housekeeping” convenience goes, this lifestyle is pretty well unparalleled.
Where security is concerned, however, things aren’t quiet as sure. After a few
weeks “in the open” you build up a repertoire of camping nooks with
little-to-no risk of discovery or harassment. There’s a great alcove just south
of the Fine-Arts building, and an extensive patch of trees and shrubbery west
of the Institute complex. Even when sleeping on campus I rarely worry about
someone seeing me. The main danger of detection comes from the ruckus I make
rolling up in the morning. Zippers, tarps and valves buzz, crinkle and hiss
unless packed painfully slow. This caution used to retard my routine but I’ve
learned that an explosive burst from the bushes draws less attention. Once in
the open I take my time drying and packing my gear in the hot Utah sun.
“Where do you go during the day?”
The moisture from
my damp sleeping bag humidifies the bright corner on the second floor of the
Merrill-Cazier Library. Grateful for the wide windows, I lean back in the
richly upholstered chair, cracking my back over its back. Cracker crumbs,
dislodged from my mustache, fall to the floor where my gear lies steaming in
the sun. Students, scattered along the handsome wooden study-stations type
studiously, apparently indifferent of my unorthodox use of the public space we
share.
The
library, Student Center, Fine Arts Building and Natural Resources Building are
my most frequent haunts. In their halls, classrooms and student lounges, I do
homework, eat, socialize and play. My access to these areas, assured by my
status as a student, provides me with space, heat, water, toilets and internet
access. While it’s nice to never need to clean the bathroom, it’s also humbling
to have no control over the space you inhabit.
Outside, I don’t
experience the same uneasiness concerning property rights. I’m most comfortable
in the canyons or hills. We attempt to divide natural resources and fence off
parcels of wilderness, but the nature of Nature eludes ownership altogether. We
all have equal rights in the landscape to which we belong.
“What about when it gets cold?”
An unidentified
liquid, most likely drool or dew, oozes across my clammy cheek and drips onto
my synthetic sleeping bag where it freezes. I can’t feel my nose. My hands
won’t close the zipper on my coat. Morning moisture flakes and falls from my
frosty bike to the icy ground as I hurriedly secure my bulging backpack in the
basket.
I have a sleeping
bag rated to zero degrees Fahrenheit. I was unaware, however, when I purchased
the inexpensive sack, that this is a “survival rating.” When supplemented by an
emergency blanket, a good pad, and every article of clothing I own, my “High
Mountain” bag keeps me from freezing to death. On really cold nights I sleep on
a ventilation grate. Every morning I’m temporarily deafened by the rumbling,
but the warmth is worth it. There are advantages to cold spells. I can be sure
that no one has visited my “campsite”—the snow keeps track for me. Also, around
the 15th of September the mosquitoes, ants, and spiders stop trying
to sleep with me. On the subject of intimacy, living outdoors I’m connected to
the earth’s circadian rhythms and aware of its moods, patterns, and changes.
The weather controls my life more than the typical collegiate.
“What do you eat?”
“Ding, Ding, Ding,” the
cheerful microwave chime calls me from the corner of the Student Center “Hub.”
I hurry over and peer through the dim window to see if my meal is ready.
Slurping the instant potatoes (watered down into a drinkable soup) from my
“Rubbermaid” lidded bowl, I smile. That bowl’s the best $2.39 I’ve ever spent.
It has survived countless nukings.
With 23,000
undergraduates currently enrolled at Utah State, there is a free dinner, lunch,
or opening social almost every day. With selective attention to the events
calendar, and by getting on a half-dozen club e-mailing lists, you can count on
at least 2,500 calories a day. I supplement my scavenged diet with “Quaker
Instant Oatmeal” packets, dehydrated potatoes and rice, and an occasional loaf
from the “Wonder-Bread” outlet’s dumpster down on First West. My eating
expenses are almost zero but my food intake is largely determined by chance and
luck.
“What do your parents think about
it?”
“Have a good
semester and be safe honey.” My short, brown-haired mother ushered me out the
door, unperturbed and confidently unconcerned about my decision to camp here
and there.
“Serious students need a place to study and
stack their books. You’re going to expend all your energy on subsisting,” my
father fretted when I proposed the idea to him (a few days before heading up to
school). Despite his apprehensions he drove me up to Logan my first semester
outside. I assured him that it wasn’t financial or social constraints causing
me to camp out. I buttered him up a little, reasoning that I’d be able to give
more time to my studies since I wouldn’t be so immersed in the dorm social
scene. The jury’s still out as to whether my decent grades are due to my
alternative lifestyle or just a healthy fear of losing my tuition waiver, but
this explanation seemed to calm my father. Subsequently, he has become a great
supporter and chronicler of my experiment.
“How do you date?”
“Should we meet at your place or at mine?”
“I’ll come by at
8:30 OK?” I respond quickly, without hesitation, grateful she had posed the
question that way.
“OK, what’s your
number?”
“Uh,”
This time I stall, looking upward for inspiration. “E-mail is the best way to
get a hold of me. Send me a message if you can’t make it, alright?”
“Sounds good. Are
you driving or me?”
“How bout we
walk?”
“Uh, sure. OK see
ya!”
The puzzled girl I
just asked out waves politely as she steps through the library doors. I turn
back my to research. It will be easier to explain once we’re actually on the
date.
With no house,
car, phone, roommates, or consistent venue for socializing, I encounter a
selective slice of the student population. These challenges haven’t seriously
impeded my social success, however. My camping out is often considered novel
and interesting. My homelessness isn’t ultimately motivated by a desire to pick
up on women, but my occasional attempts at drawing their attention are helped
more than inhibited by this peculiarity.
“Why do you do it?”
The buzz and snap
of my bike’s tires heightens as I pick up momentum on the old banked hill, just
west of campus. My shoulders shudder involuntarily, not from the cold, but from
a jubilant impulse issuing from every corner of my body. I hoot and then yelp,
unable to contain the surge of compact speed and hearty simplicity the early
morning trip to the laundromat infuses me with. Distributed between my backpack
and my bike-basket, I’m carrying everything I own.
I camp out because
I feel invigorated by the whiff and bite of winter wind; because it minimizes
my ecological footprint; because I feel more aware of what is necessary and
what is expendable; because I don’t need an alarm clock or vacuum cleaner.
There is something primal and earthy about the daily necessities of rolling up
camp, finding places to stay dry, and having to expend energy to assure myself
a consistent caloric intake. When the sun hangs low over the Wellsvilles around
5:00 pm, or when the temperature plummets unexpectedly, I often feel an
intimate communion with the hundreds of thousands of other human beings who
live, or have lived, from day to day, between buildings and beside trees. It’s
a curious sensation and surprisingly appropriate to life.
Living outside has
afforded me a delicious sensation of communion with nature, freedom and
mobility. Freedom isn’t, however, inversely proportional to dependence. Those
who own or use more than I do aren’t necessarily enslaved by their possessions.
Nonetheless our ability to live deliberately is compromised when we are
ignorant of the fact that our so-called “dependencies” are often imposed by
others’ preferences and traditions. The longer I live under the liquid moon the
more I’m convinced that exposure to night air teaches us our true context and
place in the world. The more aware we are of what we truly need to be happy,
the more we can serve those around us—the more we can relish the ironies and
idiosyncrasies of this lopsided and unlikely existence. With new experience
comes exciting detachment—new perspective that permits us to see our worlds
from the outside. So I’m willing to live without.
To
hear the wind through the trees
I took down my four walls
and stepped quietly into the moonlight
to the sound of snowfalls.
Ben
Abbott, November First 2006
