Hunger Pains

During a lunch break

I'll start with what I feel. My eyes are swollen shut. The stillness of 5:00 AM is broken only by the sound of water hitting metal, and I surprised to find that my muscles haven’t woken up yet as it’s taking literally every ounce of my bodily strength to grip the handle of the water pump and press down. I can’t see what I’m doing but as soon as icy water begins soaking my sweatshirt I stop. Stumbling up the sloping granite through the blackness, I mindlessly grip the handle of the now seemingly 500 pound water-filled pot and somehow manage to make it to the top where our tarp is barely outlined. I set the pot down onto a tiny burner, let lighter fluid flow into the burner and light a match that flares up the first light of the morning. And now…I wait. Wait for the two-inch wide flame to bring two gallons of ice cold water to a boil. Wait for the sun while I pry my eyes open the rest of the way and hug my knees to my chest, looking across dark purple peaks heading towards the horizon. And all this for a few spoons of instant oatmeal.

            It’s our 34th day on the ridges of Yosemite, the last day of this beautiful insanity that has taken over each one of us. Why am I here? To save the planet, with five other high school students. To conserve nature. Or something along those lines. A few months ago when I had received my Student Conservation Association acceptance letter in the mail and found out I was going to Yosemite, I nearly ripped the paper to shreds in my excitement. I was going to be part of something bigger, something monumentally beautiful, something...I didn't know. Something besides 6 AM summer swim team or late night illegal fireworks. Something spectacular.  The first week was over in a blur; our job here is to remove illegal campsites around the park by shoveling out coal and trash, which means we never sleep in the same place for more than two nights. Hauling 65 pounds on each of our backs, the 14 mile treks to the next site across granite boulder fields proved to be challenging -- and when I say challenging, I of course mean pure physical agony. But the view of the park from 10,000 feet above the winding valley made it all worth it. That is, until now. We've been up here for four and half weeks now, and the word "insanity" barely covers what the last few days have been like. Grueling. Sickening. Empty. A week ago, it wasn't like this; a week ago we were sane, even happy. Until Tuesday, after we had laid down our shovels and started our lunch break. Adra, one of our leaders, had told us the bad news.

            “Alright, guys, it seems as if we’ve got a problem on our hands. You all know there’ve been forest fires for a while near the valley…but apparently they spread to the refrigeration unit. OUR refrigeration unit. Don’t shit a chicken but…well…the food we’ve got with us is gonna have to last us the rest of the week.”

            Hank, our assless-chaps-wearing resupply man, had just headed back down the 10,000 feet to the valley. Every few days, he would don his aviators and spurs, and ride a mule loaded with food to our next site. The days he came to resupply us, we would wait sick with anticipation and lack of food until we heard his whistling; it was like he was the ice cream truck driver and we were five year olds during the summer time (Sidenote: for me, the ice cream will always provoke me to sprint down the street flailing my arms like a crazy person as it did when I was little). Anyways, we would drop whatever we were holding and race to Hank, to our own personal Mother Theresa, and gorge ourselves with whatever we could get our hands on.

            So you can imagine that after receiving the news that we would have to make a few days worth of food, which was already a meager amount for that period of time, last a week – we were a bit upset.

            And now it’s the last day before we get down to the valley, to showers and soap and any foods we desire – and I think we have all gone a little crazy. I’ve been waiting for this pot of water to boil for half an hour and I think I have pneumonia and I can’t help but wonder…is this worth a few crappy spoonfuls of oatmeal? I tip the near empty bag of instant oats so they fall into one corner; there is about a cup left. I look over to the severely diminished pile of food – three corn tortillas, and half a cup of gorp. This is what we have to sustain eight of us for a nine mile hike down the rest of the way to the valley. And when the sun finally comes up, the temperature will rise and the sun will sap whatever energy we have out of us. At least we’re done working, because I think that all of us may have collapsed.

            This week has tested both our physical and mental strength. Not only am I constantly sapped of energy, but I feel an emptiness I’ve never experienced. We are constantly on edge with each other. I have never felt so hungry; I literally can think of nothing else. I've filled at least three pages of my journal with pictures of food, from a strawberry rhubarb pie to a whole turkey leg. What I wouldn’t give for a glass of cold milk...or an entire pork roast...or something besides nothing.

            The water’s finally boiling and the sun has begun casting rays of light across the top of the tarp. The pink tips of the misty peaks stretching out into the distance are breathtakingly beautiful – but I barely register this. I’ve barely been able to register anything for the last week except for my stomach. Adra and Alex, our leaders, are the first to roll out of their sleeping bags and join me under the tarp.

“Last day!” Adra says, forcing a smile. I can see her smile lines tattooed on her face even after she stops; dirt and coal dust from shoveling out fire rings have caked all of our faces, and the crevasses of her smile are white in comparison.

“Is this it?” Anna’s under the tarp and is examining the bag of oats.

“Uhhh-huh.” I remove the water from the flame as the rest of the group stumbles under the tarp, grabbing their dirt-covered plastic bowls. We fill our bowls with hot water, and Adra picks up the bag of oats. We are all watching the bag, anticipating the food that will slide down our throats in a few seconds and maybe stop the stabbing hunger for an hour or two. She scoops two spoonfuls into her bowl; the bag is handed around to each person, and we all watch each other like hawks, monitoring the amount each person is taking. Eventually it reaches Walter – and I watch as he reaches in after two scoops to take a third. I hate him. I HATE him. The bag passes to Anna but Patrick and Elaine are still glaring at Walter. I don’t care that I’ve lived with this person for five weeks. I don't care if he's hungry, I don't care if he's twice my size, I want to punch him in the face. I am going to punch him in the face. He is not entitled to those oats. I clench my fists until my dirt-filled nails cut my palms. I want stick my hand in his bowl and take back the oats. They’re not his. They should by mine. MINE -- and Elaine cracks. But she keeps it polite.

“Uh, Walter, we’ve all taken only two scoops – don’t you think you should save a little for the rest of the group?” Walter’s head snaps up.

“Elaine, I took just as much as everyone else, so why don't you just lay of my FUCKING back.” We all stiffen, and Tristan passes the bag to me. I take two spoonfuls and my stomach screams as I pass the bag to my right.
This has been each morning, every morning, for the last six days. And I think someone may end up being accidentally pushed over the edge of a cliff by nightfall. And right about now...I wouldn't be surprised if I was the one who did the pushing. And the scary thing is...I don't even know that I would regret it. This trip has been something spectacular; it's changed us all into wild beings, driven purely by ids and counting spoonfuls and the growling that comes from seemingly every part of our bodies. It's turned me into someone I wouldn't have recognized a few weeks ago. The hunger consumes me, and I hope that once we get down to the valley, we'll find our old selves.