It might be human nature to want to feel significant, to know we've made a difference by existing. I remember reading stories of pioneers who transversed the plains on their way to the Willamette Valley to steal land from the natives already living there. As they urged their plodding oxen forward, they left their marks on the land in the form of cast-off detritus, wagon wheel ruts, and carvings on Independence Rock, for example. I wonder if those travelers had any idea of their legacy. Now we treasure those acts of littering and vandalism. I think they just wanted to feel like, for a brief moment, they had made their mark, to prove they mattered.
I tucked my minivan into a space too tiny for anything else, with bushes screening me on three sides. Just behind my liftgate I saw the remains of a campfire ring, now filled with charcoal and some trash, which I put into my garbage bag. As I inspected the ground, I came across a plastic ziplock bag weighted down by a rock. I picked it up. A folded piece of paper was inside. Of course, I opened up the bag and unfolded the paper.
A previous camper had left a handwritten note. He wrote that he had camped in that spot in early March, a month or so before I arrived. He had camped a couple months at the campsite, on his way to something else, he wasn't sure what. During his stop there, he found an excellent Mexican food restaurant, and he met a girl he really liked, apparently another camper. He noted the uncertainty of his journey and reflected on how much he had learned about life and himself by living in his Jeep. A philosopher. He left the note unsigned.
Reading the note made me think about how easy it is for an uprooted person to feel disconnected from an established community. I haven't felt inspired to leave litter in the form of a note to posterity. However, I too feel the need to matter.
Imagine packing your important belongings into a Conestoga wagon, buying a team of oxen, and pointing them west. Even though the trail became well established, and there were numerous routes and supports put in place to help travelers cross the plains, it must have been fairly terrifying to turn away from civilization to head toward parts unknown. I'm guessing the frustration of staying stuck in the East caved under the desire for freedom, adventure, land, a new life. Seeds to plant, heads to bust, gold to pan, whatever the impetus, it was enough to motivate those intrepid souls to put it all in a wagon and hit the road.
My extended road trip is not that romantic. I can't claim any grand motivation. I'm just waiting out the housing shortage.
I thought about tossing the note in my trash bag. In the end, I put the note back in the ziplock baggy and weighted it down with the rock for someone else to find. I couldn't bring myself to erase the existence of that note. That camper mattered, to me, if to no one else.
