But, Aren’t You Afraid?

When I talk about my solo trips, this is the most common question that comes up: Aren’t you afraid to go alone?

The backcountry holds a number of perils, many of which can catch the imagination and, with it, run rampant. This is evident in our literature and film: how many protagonists have stepped off the beaten path and directly into the jaws of a bear, the fury of a rockslide, or killing chill of a winter storm? And yes, these things do exist… but do they warrant fear, or respect?

Responsible risk-taking demands humility. I consider myself a student, not a conqueror, of wild places. I learn though formal courses, from other outdoorspeople, and through experience. I study the behavior of wildlife, the patterns of weather, navigation techniques, self-rescue, the physical characteristics of terrain, and the many unique hazards that might occur through a convergence of different risk factors.

To return to the concept of fear, it’s hard to say how often that emotion is present when my heart is flying on the storm of joy that swarms my mind when I’m alone in the wild peace of a place. There’s rarely room for much else, which is a blessed relief following the mental overload of life in an overdeveloped society.

If there’s one apprehension that finds its way in, however, it is generally one that ubiquitous from city to wildland: that of the lone woman in a world which, far too often, still sees us as opportunities to exploit. While the ideas of a river crossing gone bad or an animal attack are not pleasant ones, they are far less fearsome to me than the more statistically likely scenario of an attack by one of my own species. Like most women, I’ve experienced the aggressions of harassment, assault, and the vampiric anxiety of a situation where my mind whirls to discern between friendliness and threat. The women reading this will doubtless understand the feeling and perhaps, be reassured by the knowledge that I generally travel armed and accompanied by a “fur missile”. The dimming of this fear only contributes to the weightless joy of true solitude, which dwells in places where the nearest human is many miles away.

Stepping away from the fear of human darkness brings my thoughts back to other, more personally-acceptable dangers that I occasionally encounter in the backcountry. An example of this came on one occasion when, despite running counter to my intellect, I first experienced the primal prey-fear that is an heirloom our prehistoric days, before humans began manufacturing ecosystems to their perceived favor:

It was late autumn, and I had just flown to Washington state for a few days of ICU work. I had the afternoon and evening to shift to a nocturnal schedule before starting work the following night, so after picking up my car I drove to the west side of the Olympic Peninsula for a twilight trail run in the mountains. I parked at a deserted trailhead about 90 minutes before sunset, threw on a light running pack with some emergency gear, water, and a headlamp, and set off at a mellow jog.

The trail wove its way though densely-shadowed rainforest, weaving between the ancient pillars of moss-robed trees to traverse softly up the incline of a river valley, bounded by forested walls that swooped into snow-touched peaks. About a mile inward, the trail eased away from the river to bypass a series of steep embankments along a shelflike section cut into the steep slope, traversing the twisting contours of the mountainside. A brushy drainage depression flanked this section on the uphill side of the trail.

As I rounded a blind curve, a flash of red and white pulled my eyes downward from the dappled greenery. It took a moment for me to register that what I saw was not a sanguineous cluster of amanita mushrooms, but the splintered hole of a bloody rib cage. It was the body of a cow elk, partially obscured by a shroud of leaves and branches less than five feet off the trail. Half of my mind said, “This is the recent kill of a large predator that may very well be nearby –THIS IS SO COOL!” The other half was saying, “This is the recent kill of a large predator that may very well be nearby –TIME TO GO!” I went, slowing to the less prey-like pace of a walk until I had cleared the area.

After the excitement of finding the elk kill, I settled back into the calm enjoyment of slow miles along a beautiful trail at sunset. The ever-present rush of a companionable river, the easing wind that rolled its way down from the icy reaches of the upper valley, and the mellowing smells of moss and rainfall saturated my quiet mind. Where the trail turned upwards for an earnest ascent towards the high passes, I broke away to splash in the icy river and rest among the water-smoothed stones before turning back for a quick return along the four miles downhill to my car.

I was about a mile and a half away from the trailhead, running through the dim greyscale of the forest following sunset, when I was startled by an unexpected touch of fear. Defying the rationalization that nothing seemed to be wrong, the hair stood up on my arms and neck as dread gnawed its way in. I was a quarter mile away from the site of the elk kill, so I guessed that my imagination was just taking me for a ride. Still, I slowed to a walk, approaching cautiously through the crepuscular gloom while singing random pieces of music as per my usual “predator, know that I am here” practice. My dread grew. Ridiculous though it was, and perhaps to somehow justify my irrational feelings, my imagination kept taking me to a place where I was attacked by undead zombie deer or malevolent, cervid-killing aliens. Yes, the reptilian alarm center of my brain was definitely making up for lost time.

By the time I reached the vicinity of the elk kill, I was so unnerved that I was walking along with a drawn knife in my hand, contemplating the merits of skirting the place by scaling the shadowy mountainside vs climbing down the steep embankment and wading through the waist-deep torrent of snowmelt below. My [mostly] rational mind ultimately kept my feet on the trail and my vocal cords flitting through an unfortunate mashup of Jingle Bells and Bon Jovi.

When I finally rounded a turn in the twisting trail and saw the tangle of matted fur amongst the leaf litter and dead branches, I laughed at the irrational fear that was already ebbing with the very natural, and naturalist-intriguing, sight of an ordinary predator kill. And then, only four strides away from passing the dead creature, a stir of lighter brown broke away from the shadowy carcass, lifting glaring yellow eyes to meet my startled blue. I was face-to-face with a blood-matted mountain lion.

It was an encounter I had dreamed of for years, but so startling in the moment that I gave a wordless yell and brandished my knife like a kid playing at saber dueling. In hindsight, perhaps a more appropriate response would have been to speak calmly and back slowly away with the intent to skirt around the beautiful cat’s dinner table via the river of snowmelt –which suddenly looked a lot warmer than it had a few minutes prior. While a more aggressive approach is recommended in response to predatory behavior, I’m not sure this applies to accidentally stumbling across a mountain lion that is minding its own business, trying to enjoy a nice meal. Nonetheless, I threw my arms in the air and yowled at the lion and, after a brief, indignant glare from those glowing eyes, he leaped away into the dense vegetation of the mountain slope and… disappeared.

After his single shattering crash into the undergrowth, the woods became completely silent. I don’t know whether he paused then, quietly watching me from the mottled dim of the trees, or if he’d ghosted away on the phantom hush of feline paws. But I felt his presence in that primitive part of my brain, electric alarm flooding down my back, hot tendrils inciting my heart and limbs. I continued down the trail at a deliberately un-preylike walking pace, my newly-donned headlamp tracing a meager beam over the branches as I scanned the deepening darkness before, around, above, and behind me.

My return was uneventful, my fear soon giving way to the blooming thrill of joy and excitement. What a rare, incredible encounter. What a stunningly lovely creature, so perfect in his utter belongingness to the enigmatic mountains. What joy I found in receiving this primal reminder of my own place and vitality in the world.

So yes, I am occasionally afraid “out there”. But fear is just another tool of the mind; it is not, in itself, a reason to stay behind.