No. 3: I've Never Eaten a Grape Dropped by a Dayhiker on a Trail in Adirondack Park

But I wanted to. God, I wanted to. And I almost did.

As the name of the activity suggests, when one is backpacking, one carries the essentials of life on one's back. In a backpack. As this is the case, an overriding goal is to minimize the weight that must be lugged, mile after mile, on a weary back.

So food is principally a dried affair, mostly carbohydrate with whatever protein can be worked in. Noodles, dried fruits, nuts, granola bars and crackers always find their way into my food bag. And for the most part, this is okay. After a day of climbing, descending, and generally just putting one foot in front of another over and over again, feeding your face with starchy, cheesy noodles is the height of decadence.

Then on the first night, as you're sitting in front of the tent after dinner, the fantasies crowd in, and they always revolve around fresh, cool, fully hydrated food. Crisp green lettuce. A juicy peach. A fizzy soda.

Everyone who has completed even a single overnight backpacking trip is acquainted with the hunger that accompanies every single step. TH brother-in-law described his thru-hike on the Appalachian Trail in terms of his hunger: "Really," he said blithely, "you have to get used to a constant state of malnourishment. It's just always there."

And so it is on even the shortest trip. The last mile is the worst, because the goodies are, painfully, almost in your grasp. Pungently sweet-smelling dayhikers start to file past, politely ignoring your stink until they think you are far enough past them that you cannot hear them gagging. The din of voices starts to pick up as you trudge along, and the gentle quiet of the wilderness starts to fade away.

And then you see it in the middle of the trail -- purple, plump and perfectly formed. One fresh, lovely grape with only the smallest bit of trail dirt on it, no doubt dropped by a careless dayhiker with no reason to treasure a single, tiny piece of fruit. And you scream to a stop in front of it and you have almost completed the motion of grabbing it to stuff it in your mouth and feel the juices explode on your tongue when you think to yourself, "you're about to eat a grape that has been on this trail for God-knows-how-long and was dropped by God-knows-who's grimy hand."

And you stare at it for a few more seconds, trying to decide whether you care. And you realize that three days is not a long enough trip to make it worth it, but if you had been out just one more day you would have eaten that grape and not looked back.

But for ever after, when you're on a trail and thinking about succulent, fresh produce, you always regret the loss of that tiny, sweet ball of fruit. And you know that if you are ever again blessed with such an opportunity, no mere social convention will come between you and that grape.