Backpacking // Angel island.

I haven’t gotten outside as much as I’d like to since moving back to San Francisco. California offers a host of hiking and backpacking options, but I’ve remained primarily indoors over the last couple of months. Partly, this is due to finances and the weather, but also, I was scared. I hadn’t climbed so much as a steep hill in months. I was afraid to challenge myself and fail at it.

I admit that, when it comes to the outdoors, I am more Henry David Thoreau than Sir Edmund Hilary. I am not competitive or fast, I am an ambler, a wanderer who aims to meander through nature, experience it wholly, then attempt to recapture it in words. I want to write the whole world into a notebook I can re-read and experience every thistle, pine cone, ocean wave and grain of sand over and over again. But, in order to accomplish this, there must first be the challenge.

I signed up for a Trail Mavens trip on Angel Island. I have been on Trail Mavens trips previously (this was actually my fourth), so there was a level of perceived comfort that cushioned the fear of the unknown. I had also never been to Angel Island, but it was on my Bay Area Bucket List, and I knew we’d have to backpack in — so I was excited at the chance to utilize my (highly underutilized, of late) backpacking gear.

We went through the proper packing protocol, distributed group gear, then left on the ferry from Tiburon to Angel Island. Upon arrival, we hiked approximately 2 miles in to the campsite — a fairly developed site that provided us with privacy, potable water and trash cans. We had a fabulous view of the entire East Bay and the Bay Bridge. Sail boats dotted the water, dipping and swerving with determination as they faced the aggressive ocean breezes. They tipped so far over, almost touching the water’s edge, but never sinking. Perhaps, in my next life, I could be a sail boat.

We also almost immediately spotted a hummingbird. I love hummingbirds and see them so rarely in California, in stark contrast to Texas, and even Mexico, where they continually dot the sky — I perceive them as a definite sign of good luck.

During the day, we hiked to the summit of Mt. Livermore (with day packs, no heavy gear) and watched the fog roll in to entirely obscure our vision, but not our ascent. We sat in silence and quiet meditation — together, each listening to the breeze and our own breath.

At night, we cooked a Mexican-themed backpacker bowl (rehydrated beans, rice, avocado, bell pepper and cheese) on two camp stoves. Sidenote: I love Trail Mavens’ commitment to excellent backpacking meals and the prioritization of always bringing booze.

Since Angel Island prohibits campfires and burning, we participated in a vigorous session of jumping jacks before stripping down to one layer and zipping ourselves in for the night. I made it through six pages of White for Witching before my eyes began to close on their own. I always enjoy sleeping outside, with the notable exception of increased urination due to staying properly hydrated.

The second day brought intermittent rain, sideways swiping our faces as we hiked away from camp. But, I really enjoyed exploring the abandoned (see also: potentially haunted) buildings. The juxtaposition of backpack-toting women set against the backdrop of a distant city and the more proximal addition of both wild flora and deserted buildings gave me a very dystopian vibe — shades of Station Eleven.

We rode the ferry and walked back through Tiburon in the same sideswiping rain. Suffice to say, I was very glad to change into warm, dry sweatpants and go to bed early. However, this experience provided me with a bit of a reset, a reminder of where I want my priorities to be, and encouragement to seek out my own adventures.

book talk // margaret the first.

I’d heard about Margaret the First by Danielle Dutton on Book Riot’s podcast; then, my local bookstore had the (strikingly beautiful!) cover art on prominent display.

And yet, I knew nothing of Margaret Cavendish when I picked up this book. Nor did I have any expectations regarding Dutton’s writing style or really the genre of the book itself.

The novel is a merging of literary and historical fiction that unravels the tale of 17th-century Duchess, Margaret Cavendish. She was a feminist before the word possessed any meaning. She was the first (and only, I believe) woman to be invited to the Royal Society of London. She dressed with ostentation that outshone anyone else of the time — 8 foot trains, topless ballgowns, small patches on her face shaped like moons and stars. She was whimsical and thoughtful and learned, despite never attending a university. She published eccentric novels and plays — works of philosophy, penning the first science fiction / fantasy novel written by a woman and a score of feminist plays. She wrote in a time when women did not have careers.

Dutton provides us with a portrait of Margaret’s rise — from shy child to bold . Of course, Margaret is both insulated and constrained by her rank. She forms connections that would elude any layperson, yet she must abide by the strict customs of her class — lest gossip destroy her. And it almost does, several times.

Dutton also illuminates the Duke and Duchess’ flaws. They are real people who fought and disagreed, but who also never halted in their support of one another — even with Margaret couldn’t get pregnant, even when her husband is exiled during Cromwell’s Puritan regime. Their devotion and kindness to each other seems to transcend their time period — it was an unconventional, much like everything Margaret did.

Dutton’s novel, though short, was an all-engrossing read. The language is vivid and poetic. The pacing, perfection. Her short, staccato paragraphs left me more satisfied than any long-winded description. There is none of the tedium sometimes associated with historical fiction, but a sense of place is still sufficiently maintained throughout.

The beginning of the book provides us with insight into how Margaret views herself — “Queen of the Tree-People.” Then, a shift occurs, she becomes an object of speculation, a celebrity of sorts, and we begin to observe how she is viewed from the outside.

She climbs the wooden staircase, takes her place in the box. And like ripples in a summer pond, lines of faces slowly turn—from the gallery, the pit—she watches the ripple spread. 

The Duchess of Newcastle becomes a tabloid celebrity, when such a thing was still being invented, and it seems to have been invented entirely for her.

The question that gnawed at me from beginning to end was Margaret’s pseudo-obsession with fame. I suppose I never really considered fame as an important construct in 17-century England, but of course it was. So, was she a modern woman, a feminist fighting to champion her sex — or was she simply attempting to garner a reputation that would outlive her?

Margaret the First is intimate and glorious and tantalizing and I want to read and re-read it several times over. I also think I may have to embark on further investigation of Margaret Cavendish.

Overall Rating: 4/5
Recommended For: anyone who has struggled with finding their place in the world, lovers of poetic prose and literary fiction