The Best Night of Sleep

That I will never try to recreate

One of the podcasts I listen to in order to fall asleep starts each episode with the question: “What was the best night of sleep you’ve ever had?” As someone who has a difficult relationship with falling asleep, I’m always curious to hear about the bedtime routines that allow people to drift off as soon as they snuggle under the covers. With the numerous ads on podcasts for mattress-in-a-box brands, you’d be forgiven for thinking that a good night’s sleep is just a matter of taking a quiz to pick out a bed tailored to your particular issues. (I need a mattress for someone who stares at the ceiling ruminating on a conversation from three months—or three years—ago.)

But what if the key to a great night of sleep is just absolute exhaustion? A couple years ago, I went on a solo backpacking trip to enjoy the fall foliage of the Northwoods and got my best night of sleep ever—one that would be impossible to recreate at home and that I’d be an idiot to try to recreate on trail.

Let’s set the stage.

My week had gotten away from me, so I didn’t start packing until 7pm. Less than 12 hours later, I was on the interstate heading north. I parked at the lot where I would end my hike and a volunteer from the local Ice Age Trail chapter shuttled me to my starting location. It was noon and there were just nine miles between me and my campsite.

At this point, it was a pretty typical “day one” for me on a backpacking trip. Early morning? Check! Long drive? Check! Starting the hike at lunchtime, but not bothering to eat despite also skipping breakfast? Check!

It was a beautiful day, with sunshine and colorful leaves hanging on despite a storm earlier in the week. The woman who shuttled me told me I was lucky to have such great weather for my trip. When I popped into the park’s interpretive center to use the bathroom at the two mile mark, the ranger said that the forecast looked clear for the rest of the week. Around halfway to my campsite, I ran into a quartet of hikers and asked if they had noticed that it was beginning to look overcast.

“Don’t worry,” one of them said. “We checked the weather this morning and there’s no rain. Probably just some clouds passing.”

Not even fifteen minutes after I left them, the skies opened up.

It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten to camp a bit damp and chilled, so I wasn’t too bothered. After all, I had warm food to look forward to—mac & cheese made from ramen, instant cheese powder, freeze dried veggies, and bacon bits, plus hot chocolate and whiskey for dessert. And since I’d barely drunk anything that afternoon, I didn’t even have to waste time filtering water before I could start cooking!

Things were starting to look up as I watched my pot of water boil from a lovely bench situated in a picturesque campsite with a kettle lake on either side of me. And then the flame on my backpacking stove went out.

Yes, in the chaos of last minute packing I had grabbed a nearly empty fuel canister instead of the identical full one I had bought earlier in the week. So I let my ramen soak until it reached al dente, processed my frustration about the inability to make hot chocolate, and then went to bed.

At 5:45pm.

Temperatures were going to dip below freezing and I had packed accordingly—fleece lined base layers, merino gloves and hat, cozy socks, a 20 degree down quilt, a sleeping bag liner, and a few packets of Hot Hands. I put on every dry piece of clothing, banished my wet layers to a corner of my tent, and promptly passed out with a Hot Hand tucked into each glove.

When I woke around 2am, the wind was howling outside, the rain was heavier than ever, and I was sprawled diagonally across my tent with my quilt kicked down to my knees and my gloves barely hanging onto my fingertips. I removed the (still hot) Hot Hands, decided that my bladder was strong enough to wait til daylight, and went back to sleep until after 7am.

Thirteen hours of nearly uninterrupted sleep is not a luxury I’m used to. At home, a middle of the night trip to the bathroom can lead to hours of tossing until my brain settles down again. Trying to turn in early or sleep late is often hindered by the sounds of the city—sirens racing to a nearby emergency, neighborly conversations on the sidewalk below my window, garbage trucks trundling down the alley. And once awake, there is the voice in the back of my head asking, “Shouldn’t I be doing something more productive than sleep right now?”

When I slept next to the Harwood Lakes, nothing impeded my sleep. The rain provided white noise, dehydration kept me from needing a midnight bathroom break, and general frustration with how the day had turned out left me no energy to think about anything else. Just a dreamless sleep while tucked into a nest of fleece and down.

So the next time I’m staring at the ceiling in the comfort of my temperature controlled bedroom surrounded by four pillows and a glass of water on the nightstand, I’ll remind myself that the reason sleep isn’t coming easily is because I had too good of a day.