Mature, adj

1. fully developed in body or mind, 2. complete in natural growth or development, 4. expressive of maturity: a mature appearance

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Maturity, Psychological

5. An important characteristic of the individual who becomes mature is that he is at home with reality.

6. The mature individual cannot look outer reality in the face unless he is prepared to look himself in the face, too. He is at home with himself.

14. The mature person knows that he has to go on choosing alternatives, that each alternative costs him something, and there are things he will never be able to do and experience. He also knows that there are things he will never be able to do again, that he can never recapture his youth or relive his first encounters with certain experiences. He knows that his integrity is continually threatened by practical demands, by seductive temptations, by concessions and compromises, by conflicting values, and can only be preserved at the cost of some psychic strain.

``Am i mature..? What kind of question is that?,'' i think to myself.

``Well, i guess i've never given it much though. Why?''

He turns from staring out the window at the endless brown and dirty green stretches of Texan desert that are scrolling by, to look at me with almost pleading eyes.

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``I always want to be more mature, but i'm not sure how.''

Stumped, i mumble something about it taking time and being a slow process, and he lets the subject drop, turning to gaze some more out the car window as we speed south towards Big Bend National Park

So many things in life are routine. I can think of only a handful of bicycle rides that stand out as unique, walks in the park, books read, music listened to--they all fade. Backpacking can never be called routine, or at least none of the backpacking trips which i've been a part of. Something about surviving off of what you can carry over steep hills, through extreme weather--something about pushing on with complaining muscles, blisters--something about replacing the complexities of modern life with the complexities of the wild--something about backpacking tests you, shows you your weaknesses, and taunts you to try again, only to show you that after the lessons you so well learned the times before were not enough.

Having recently moved to Texas, and feeling clostrophobic from the tiny parks and public land given to stretch ones legs on, i had budgetted for a week of backpacking during Christmas/New Years break. Originally i had planned to go alone, but eventually i met a few people who i thought might also enjoy such an excursion. Most of them had plans, but i was able to talk Elihud, an 18 year old i'd met at church, into going. It was his fist time backpacking and he was nervous, although he tried not to let it on. It was my first time backpacking in the desert where water is scarse, and in the winter months, so i was a bit nervous myself.

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Some may say that its just hacker traits (not to confuse hacker with cracker), others may point to the decalog--however it is, i eschew dishonesty. On this point it seems i'm relentlessly tested, such as when my second line manager strolled casually into my office and asked me how i was liking work and life in Texas. Retrospectively though, i have yet to regret the truth and rigidly living by such.

The drive from Austin to Big Bend took about 8 hours, and it was great to see wide open spaces with sparse signs of humanity. The most eventful part of the drive was some 30 miles outside of Big Bend sailing path a border patrol station for traffic of the opposite direction. Elihud evidently hadn't brought any ID with him, and given his Hispanic complexion i guessed that we could get grief on the way back, but we had plenty of time to sit and wait for his mother to mail his ID, if it came to that, so while a little nervous about our return, we sped on.

Big Bend is situated in south-west Texas, huddled between Texas and separated by Mexico only by the Rio Grande ``river'' (creek). While much of the land mass is flat, high desert scrub, the Chisos Mountains randomly disrupt the monotonous terrain, and grace the horizon with jagged volcanic beauty.

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After spending Christmas night in a conventional campground, we were first to the rangers station, beating the crowd that pilgrimages here during Christmas break, and thus getting our pick of backpacking camp sites. Since a gallon of water per person per day is advised, and since we had 6 gallons worth of water storage, we chose a 3 day journey, which would let us cover (sadly) most of the trail.

The first day, loaded down with the weight of such precious liquid, we ascended almost 2000 feet to our first camp--perched on the rim overlooking the South and South West valley floor. With plenty of time to spare before sunset, we ate dinner, and then sat there on the rim and watched the sun slowly sink over Mexico. With no cities within a hundred miles or more, the stars were so very bright; there were so many of them, it was simply breath-taking.

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I was really quite impressed that a rookie of the pack, not to mention long hikes in general, had done so well with so much weight. Unfortunately i was still brewing over his neglected identification: why are kids always going and forgetting important things? In the back of my mind was an incident Jose Rojas shared about having to deal with an unruly policeman who was convinced that he was an illegal alien--i wasn't excited about playing games with some stuck-up Texan law enforcer. I must admit that my mood was not the most pleasant: i was a little short and edgy.

The following morning we arose and had a leisurely pack around the Southern Rim, first working our way east, then north, and then finally down into the Boot Canyon where we pitched the tent and tried to find something to occupy time. Eventually the sun sank, and we used the excuse of the morrow to justify sleeping at 7pm.

Chilly we awoke at 5am to head out for Emory Peak, the highest point in Big Bend. The goal was to reach the top, and from its modest 7825 feet elevation, watch the sunrise. My new thermometer claimed that the temperature was 25F, but i couldn't see my breath so i figured that it must be goofy. Reaching the top, we sat huddled, shivering and waiting for the sun to break free from the horizon. It finally did so after 45 minutes, and most gloriously. By this time we had ice swimming around in our water bottles. I could see down to the basin floor where my car sat, keeping my coat safe.

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After a few hours of gazing out across the vast stretches, we ventured down to the canyon to pack up our gear and head for the car. A boring, over cultivated trail was our lot on the hike out. Views now most unimpressive, vegetation turning from pine back to prickle; excitement only in finding two left behind beanie caps.

The lose itinerary called for us to swing by the McDonald Observatory, visit Guadalupe, and finally spelunk at Carlsbad Caverns before making our way back to Austin.

With half a day left in Big Bend, we randomly visited sites. By this time my irritability was getting the best of me, and we finally had a confrontation. Elihud told me to quit worrying so much, he'd dealt with border patrol lots of time, and it was never a problem.

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When we awoke Monday morning in Rio Grande Village, the temperature was 20F. I warmed up by scrambling about the camp, reorganizing the car, cooking, eating, and cleaning up, and making all the rest of the preparations for heading out. Poor Elihud was freezing. I kept telling him to move around to warm up, but he would just stand there and stair at the ground.

``Confound it! Stay cold if that's what you want!''

``Can we stop on our way out at the laundry mat and wash those caps?''

``Waste 2 hours? I've got extra hats with me, we can use those!''

Soon we were off, gazing at the hills of Big Bend ``for the last time''. It felt weird to be driving 80 after 3 days of walking, and 2 days of slow park speed limits.

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Approaching the boarder patrol, i instinctively said, ``don't lie.'' There was no need getting a guilty conscience over some hassle and saving ourselves a few minutes.

``Why?''

``It's no good..'' was all i had time to say before we pulled between two officers, one on each side of the road, standing at attention in the cold dessert sunlight.

Patrol: ``Are you both Americans?''

sRp: ``I am.''

Patrol: ``And you?'' looking past me to the passengers seat.

Elihud: ``Uh..'' >silence< ``no sir.''

Patrol: ``And which country are you from?''

Elihud: ``Mexico.''

Patrol: ``Can i see your ID.''

Elihud: ``All i have it this,'' handing him his high school ID card.

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Patrol: ``What's that?'' Pause, then slightly provoked, ``This is great for school, but this is no good in the real world which is where we're at right now. Where's your card.''

Elihud: ``Which card?''

Patrol: ``The one you're suppose to carry at all times.''

Elihud: ``Nobody told me that.''

Patrol: ``Pull up and park in front of the brown shed.''

The border patrol tries find his name on their computers. Mean while we were out in the car praying.

Patrol: ``These names didn't pull up anything on our computer, could you write down for us your full name on this paper.''

Elihud returns the paper with 5 names scribbled on it, ensuing a discussion about which names are which and how they all fit into the typified convention of naming.

With no further luck at finding him in their database, Elihud is escorted into the office to help them with the names in the computer. Meanwhile the other officer tells me that it looks like he's illegal, which means they'll be deporting him, and that i'm liable for conviction of ``smuggling'' or ``trafficking'' across a US border. Miranda is read.

Through the blur the of the next eternity i'm sitting in an office uncontrollably, chair shaking from head to toe; Elihud is locked up in a cell, and the patrol are making phone calls, asking more questions trying to get the whole story. I do have to say, both of them were as kind as possible the whole time, while still rigidly following their procedures.

``This is my job, and i don't like this part of it any more then you do, but it has to be done,'' one of the patrol later said somewhat apologetically.

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After the truth is pretty clear Elihud confesses, and they tell him that he has two options: they send him back to Mexico tonight and nothing goes on his record, or he goes to a judge which sends him to Mexico and puts on his permanent record that he over-stayed.

Their manager finally called back...

``We've got a couple of kids here...'' glances at myself, him looking about the same age as i am, ``i mean guys here...''

Evidently their manager was as kind as they were, because he told them to go ahead and let me go after seeing if i was wanted for murder.

Elihud would be sent back with only the clothes he had on and any money he had--precious little since i was paying for the trip. After checking with the guard, i offered my friend what money i had in my wallet, which should have been plenty to get him to his relatives once dropped off in Mexico. I promised to get his stuff back to his mom, and he apologized to me.

Taking him back in, the patrol told me i could be on my way, and still trembling horribly, i made my way across the desert. It would be nearly an hour to the next town of size, and a 8 hours back to Austin. Blurry hours of slowly putting together what had just happened.

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The question that persisted for 8 hours was of my role in saying ``don't lie.'' So many possible actions, so many construable motives, so many outcomes. I feel horrible, though not guilty. Replaying the situation the only thing i could, i should have done differently was in handling of irritability.

I also thought about maturity as i drove home. Although maybe too late, i now have an answer, Elihud. To find maturity you must be able to stand straight, look anyone in the eye, and not hide from who you are, what you are, where you are, and what you believe; you must be honest with yourself and with those around you. You have a lot of potential, don't throw it away, but persist--persist honestly and legally.

This article has been the hardest i've ever written. The temptation was to minimize the story since some may disagree with portions of it. The irony startled me--how could i see such a lesson in maturity and disregard it.

``Live life, a life of balance,''
said they to one young man;
to this he strived, tried to arrive
as his unfolding life began.

Skinny/fat, he ran and sat,
grueling work and lazy play,
rich/poor, first less then more,
he lived his life this way.

And this life was the wreck of him,
though obvious it seems;
for his life, being well balanced,
was balanced by extremes of balanced means.