The woman shrieks every time she wins a hand. One of the men tells jokes, propelling the others into bellows of laughter, capped by her piercing cackle. I bunch the pillow tightly around my head, cursing the happy group. Where the hell do they think they are? And while I’m on the subject, what the hell am I doing here? Underscoring the raucous glee of the game-players is a buzz of conversation to every side, punctuated by the clangs and thumps of latecomers setting up stoves and chopping firewood. The air is hazy with wood smoke and the walls of my tent lit bright with the glare of countless lanterns. Sleep is impossible. I toss and turn for an hour, then give up. Wiggling out of my bag, I blindly pull on jeans and boots, my sole thought to escape this bedlam of human recreation which so offends my senses.
Walking in darkness, a silent ghost, I slip past the pools of light and noise that reveal my fellow campers. As I leave the campground behind, other sounds finally grace my ears - the ones I have come to hear. Wind soughs in the tops of tall pines; not far away, a creek chuckles in the night. A sliver of moon hangs in a diamond-peppered sky, casting just enough light to define the edges of an empty road. At the creek I stop to get my bearings and heave a heartfelt sigh. Free at last: the campground noise a low murmur over the hill, faint background to the bright song of tumbling water.
My eyes follow a narrow footpath that accompanies the creek into a dense stand of pines. Ten feet in, it vanishes into blackness. It would lead me to the hot springs, a mere half mile away, but the woods are awfully dark. As I hesitate, headlights top the hill behind me. A pickup rumbles toward the bridge and I step further into the shadows and freeze. The big-wheeled truck slows as the driver props a plaid-shirted forearm on the sill and peers in my direction. After a long minute they move on, leaving me behind in the dark and, sure enough, fear butts its way in, demolishing the peaceful night as it plays hopscotch through my mind:
1 - 2 What would I do?
3 - 4 "Stop!” I’d implore.
5 - 6 - 7 - 8 No-one to help. They’d get here too late.
“What was she doing anyway, walking alone in the dark?”
Lions and tigers and bears - oh, no! Lions and tigers and ...
No! I struggle to contain my fear, telling myself it is only an overly vivid imagination, but anxiety wins out. A last, longing look at the path and I turn toward the campground, choosing safety in numbers. Determined not to give in completely, I refuse to use my flashlight despite the apprehension that continues to ride my back. As I walk, I acknowledge that what scares me has little to do with lions or tigers or bears. I fear man. It is human males who people my fears of attack. While I also fear encountering a bear or a cougar, I understand that they want to run into me even less than I want to run into them. A wild animal attack will more often than not be provoked by my own actions. This is a risk I am prepared to take. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for predation on women by men; the possibility of an unprovoked assault is far less easy to take in stride.
This is the fear that has placed me in a crowded public campground tonight. Normally the first night of a road trip would find me free-camping in a remote National Forest but two recent events have motivated me to 'play it safe'. One was the solicitous advice of my astrologer neighbor who warned that, given the planetary lineup, I might easily become the target of aggressive actions during the two weeks of my trip. I am well used to my friends' trepidation about my habit of traveling alone and, while I appreciate the intent, I generally shrug off their warnings and the ubiquitous “Be Careful!” This time, however, his words fertilized a seed of doubt I had already been carrying about the trip - one that had me questioning, for the first time in years, the wisdom of traveling alone. That seed was planted in me perhaps a month earlier by an incident that occurred in the creek at the bottom of my property.
On a sweltering late summer day, I set out to explore the territory upstream of my place. Knowing the banks to be crowded with blackberries and poison oak, I waded down the middle, sloshing around the first bend into a dappled private world. The only sign of civilization was an occasional log fence crowning the tall banks. Pools of still water reflected a striking canopy of sky blue and rich backlit green, cut into jigsaw pieces by gnarled oak limbs spanning the creek. Handfuls of juicy berries sustained me as I moved through the cool haven, delighting in the company of squirrels, kingfishers, and schools of tiny fish. Rounding a wide bend, I had just waded across to a prolific tangle, intent on popping more fat berries into my mouth, when a gruff voice broke the stillness.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but this isn’t a very safe place for you to be.”
I whirled to face a man rising from the bushes across the creek, not twenty feet away, dressed in army fatigues and carrying a very long, sleek rifle. Struggling for composure, I hid my shock as we exchanged words about hunting season and private property. My first reaction was resentment at this abrupt end to my peaceful walk but when he informed me that I had passed two other hunters back around the bend, I became the deer - the one they were waiting for, the one who would walk innocently into their ambush. Standing before him in my dripping shorts and T-shirt, with unseen eyes watching from the bushes, fear flooded through me. I turned downstream, exiting with as much dignity and show of strength as I could preserve. Closer to home, the prickles running up and down my spine slowly gave way to a burning anger at having been displaced: a defenseless woman bowing to the will of men with weapons, a woman bowing to the will of men … yet again. The strength of my fear and anger took me by surprise, causing me to question a right that I had, for many years, taken for granted: freedom to wander the countryside around me. It became real to me, for the first time, just how vulnerable I might be. While I've always felt an initial apprehension at being alone in isolated places, I have chosen to acknowledge my concerns and go on - that is, until this trip, where I find myself completely unnerved.
Huddled back in my tent, I ponder my situation. Is wisdom catching up with me in my mid-forties or am I giving in to fear? Have I made the choice to stop putting myself in vulnerable situations because of the possibility of attack? Everything in me rebels against this idea. As one who began her adult life filled with anxiety at moving through the world alone, my path has been to face my fears and push through them. I have emerged stronger and more self-sufficient than I would ever have believed possible. Discovering that I thrive in a quiet country setting, with elbow room and solitude, I have spent many years living alone outside of town, whether or not I am in a relationship. Concerns about safety - amplified by the standard query: “Aren’t you afraid, out there all by yourself?" - were overcome by the joys of my chosen lifestyle.
Ten years ago, when I first traveled alone, I again had to push my way through those fears. Weary of waiting for a friend to join me on a three-month road trip, I decided to go alone. Bravado got me through the preparations but faced with the reality of actually beginning, I hit my demons head on. Driving down the highway in my camper van, half blinded with tears, I sobbed and swore and called myself crazy - but I’d gone too far to turn back. During that first trip, I discovered the joy of traveling on my own.
In the beginning, bereft of the security of familiar territory, I agonized over finding safe places to camp. I quickly learned that the crowded conditions in public campgrounds didn’t suit me, but in isolated camps I suffered through long, fear-ridden nights locked in my van, waking at every noise. As the trip progressed, each new day expanded my knowledge of back roads and free-camping. Lingering longer beside my campfire each night, I came to terms with loneliness and the feeling of exposure. Best of all, I discovered that the solitude I so treasure at home is even more soul-satisfying out in the wilderness. Camping alone, a silent observer in the natural world, I make such a small dent in the landscape as to become a part of it. I have made time for solo journeying every year since, and on each trip the first night is the most difficult, a transition time full of strange dreams, morbid imagination, and things that go bump outside my tent. But getting through that first night allows the transformation from home comfort to road freedom. That is, until this first night, which finds me crouching in a thicket of humanity.
In the days that follow, I cross Arizona and plunge into Utah, falling increasingly under the spell of the road. I delight in exploring back roads, driving miles into the desert, but struggle with a palpable fear in order to hike into an isolated canyon, an activity for which I would have felt only anticipation a year ago. I also stick with 'safe' campgrounds close to the road, setting up camp on the edges, as far as possible from the RV’s. I long for the quiet and privacy of a wilderness camp but each time I turn down a dirt road to free-camp, I back out again, giving in to my inner turmoil.
On the weekend I am joined by a girlfriend from Salt Lake City, another solo traveler. We spend several days rafting the Green River, camping in an isolated site along the shore. I feel safer in company but that night, as we sit in the flickering circle cast by our driftwood fire, it occurs to me that this safety is an illusion. Even if we were accompanied by male friends, we could easily be overpowered by any of the truckloads of men we passed on the way in: pumped up with testosterone and, all too often, alcohol; roaming the hills with rifles in search of deer, elk and other game. My friend and I discuss the possibility and arrive at the same conclusion. She, like me, feels the fear but refuses to edit her life. Despite our bravado, uneasiness settles in around the fire, driving us to our tents to search for oblivion in a troubled sleep.
Back on my own, I turn in the direction of home. The plan is to leisurely camp my way through southern Utah, ending up with three days to relax at a favorite site in the Escalante wilderness. Yet each time I think of camping there, a cold lump rises in my throat. This infuriates me. I have longed to return to this spot - a remote ridge with a view of forever and endless slickrock canyons to explore – yet here I am, paralyzed by fear.
Mercifully, fate steps in and lends a hand. I have caught a cold on the river and my throat is raw, my sinuses throbbing, my nose beginning to stream. I stock up on kleenex and head for a State Campground near Escalante but when I arrive the only site left is appallingly public, next to the restrooms and a few yards from the parking lot. The thought of being so miserable so publicly is unbearable; a wounded animal, my one desire is to crawl into a cave and hide. I climb back into the truck, leaving my money in the box, and drive on down the road. All thoughts are gone as I instinctively head for my spot.
Turning off the highway, I am greeted with islands of purple aster dotting the brick-red earth. Long strands of cloud push across an achingly blue sky and the road winds off into the distance, leading away from people, RV’s, civilization. My heart lifts at the familiar sight. Welcomed home by a place I love, I relax a little more with each mile I put behind me. Finally I turn into the faint ruts that lead to my campsite and, when I pull up to the cliff’s edge, it’s as if I never left. The light is fading but there’s just time to reconnoiter: greeting the trees, the ridge, the two rocks I call The Watchers, whose reptilian faces gaze out over a hundred mile view framed by distant mountains. A tiny prick of fear needles me still, worrying at the back of my mind, but the congestion in my head is so fierce it will let nothing through. I bundle up against the evening chill and settle in to survey the night. A storm front is blowing in from the west. Tall banks of clouds roll across the distance before me, moonlit bands of darkness striping a star-filled sky. I sleep easily that night, waking only to tend my cold and listen for the anticipated rain, which never arrives.
The following morning is one of transition. I keep busy at first - cooking, sorting the truck, mending gear - as I gradually slow down to the speed of nature. The storm front continues to sail over me. I wonder if I should move on, out of reach of the heavy black clouds, but the sun continues to shine on me as the clouds race by on either side. Finally I give in to inertia, carrying my chair, books, and papers to the cover of a graceful pinon with a view. For three days, the front passes me by. Broad surges of rain, backlit by sheet lightning, sweep over distant canyons as I sit in the sun reading, writing, and watching the weather float over the world. I feel blessed, especially when a golden eagle rises from the canyon not 15 feet from my chair. With a cursory glance at me, he calmly glides over the ridge. After two days the denizens of this place have begun to accept my presence and to make theirs known. Lizards sun themselves, birds spy on me from thick junipers, and jackrabbits pop up beside lacy stands of sage. Coyotes startle me from sleep with delirious yipping. On a hike, a rattlesnake announces his presence. We take different paths.
By the third day, I have slowed down to desert time, content to sit with The Watchers and gaze, without thought, out over the vastness for hours on end. I know that I have to leave on the morrow, heading back to my daily life in a far-away place. I hug the peace and quiet to me like a treasured pearl, allowing its essence to seep into my soul so that I may carry some of this magic back with me. For the first time in a long time, I feel truly content, at one with the world around me.
I lay my bedroll out on the cliff, wanting to spend my last night here with no barriers between me and the spirit of this place. I want to see the moonrise and the sunrise as a continuum, separated only by stars. As I'm pulling on my sleeping sweats, an unfamiliar sound disrupts the night. Sprinting to my truck, I peer toward the road and, sure enough, there are headlights turning into the ruts that lead to my camp. Not just one set, but several. A large four-wheel drive leads the way, followed by a couple of pickups and a jeep. My heart is in my throat as dread floods through me. Is this the incident my neighbor’s stars predicted? These are the vehicles of men: a group of men looking for a place to party judging from the rowdy shouts emanating from the jeep. If they should decide to hurt me, there is no-one but the coyotes to hear. Silently pushing my way into a juniper, I spy through the branches.
The first vehicle stops abruptly as its headlights fix on my truck. A series of brake lights exposes the sagebrush behind and then nothing moves. After a long moment the leader climbs out and, taking a few steps toward my tent, looks hard into the shadows beyond his headlights. I freeze in my shelter, grateful for the cover of darkness. The fear pulses deep in my belly but my mind gains a strange clarity as adrenaline pumps through my body. My eyes dart through the darkness, mapping out where to run should it become necessary. I notice his scuffed boots as he turns on his heel and heads back to consult with the others. Male voices grumble in the night, then a laugh and “Okay.” The leader mounts his truck, pulls forward until it’s almost touching the tree where I hide, and waits while the others turn around one by one on the narrow road. I exhale when the big truck’s taillights leave my vision.
When I can no longer hear the thrum of their motors, I leave my cover, stepping back into the night. A few deep breaths and my heartbeat slows, but apprehension stays with me, moving now from my belly into my head. Will they go down the road, get drunk and come back? Should I break camp? Or at least move my bedroll into the tent? No, I decide, if they do come back I’ll hear them sooner if I’m sleeping outside. It is faint comfort.
I have found such peace here these past few days; I hate feeling afraid again. Walking to the edge of the cliff, I stare out into the darkness. Only rock looks back at me. There is no evidence of people as far as the eye can see. The wide-open wilderness before me feels safe, while behind me the presence of strange men has brought the fear galloping back. Lightning crackles down over Boulder Mountain, some thirty miles away, as I sit on my bedroll, wrapped in blankets, and consider what it means to be a woman in this day and age. To live in a society we didn’t invent, with an innate tendency toward connection rather than aggression, and a body that arouses both desire and contempt. To be vulnerable. To be the deer.
And yet I am not able to give this up. As one who gathers strength and inner peace from wilderness, from solitude, from breaking the bonds of habit and challenging myself with the unknown, there is no way I can deny myself these life-enhancing adventures. I consider the possibility that I must, then, resign myself to the fact that the fear is here to stay. It, too, is a part of my life, a learned response to the world I live in. If I must accept living with fear, at least I can learn to distinguish between cultural reflex and the genuine article. I will continue to explore new horizons, relying on my intuition to tell me when it’s safe, pushing through my fears unless I feel them in my belly rather than my head.
Pulling the blankets closer around me, I watch the tail end of the front advance on the horizon, firing lightning randomly down into the maze of canyons and ridges before me. The full moon frees itself from a bank of dense clouds. I sniff the air, hone my hearing to catch any untoward sounds and, finding nothing, recapture a sliver of the peace I felt earlier. With a conscious effort, I allow that peace to fill me until there is no more room for the fear. A lonely coyote calls out from a nearby ridge. Happy for the company, I lay back in my cocoon to watch the moon rise through an ocean of stars, chased by a new day.
Written 1999, Sebastopol, CA
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