My Year Of Never Befores: A Monster Behind Every Tree

Backpacking has always appealed to me in an adventurous sort of way -- the wild open spaces of the frontier, the path not taken, a total freedom from the routine of daily life, carrying all I need in a little backpack.  Indeed, I have reveled in stories and articles in books and magazines of those who have set off and discovered a new courage within and a fresh appreciation for God's amazing creation.

My turn.

Several weeks ago now -- indeed, the days preceding my computer crash -- my husband and I set off into the wild for my first backpacking adventure.  I had no idea what I was doing, what I needed, what I was getting myself into.

My best advice:  Marry a Boy Scout

Bill had carefully selected every ounce of my backpack, advising me as per clothing, food, contingencies.  Minimalist as he is, I was a bit wary that I would have what I would need.  As it turned out, not only did I forget my water bottle in the fridge, my backpack weighed more than a third grader.  Bringing extra of anything was no longer on my radar.

We parked at the trailhead, laced up our hiking shoes, adjusted the load on my back, and took a picture to commemorate this first backpacking trip in my life (yes, one of the pictures lost forever when my computer crashed two days later.)  I have hiked now for several years, but never stayed the night "out there."  My parents considered a picnic in the park as "roughing it."  We camped a lot with our girls when they were growing up, but always in the fortress of a pop-up camper.  So this definitely was a journey into the unknown.

The trail was carpeted with a thousand colors of fallen leaves, so deep in places it was like shuffling through snow.   A few miles later, a grove of young hemlocks decorated our designated campsite, their feathery needles floating in mid-air.  We pitched our tent, hoisted our backpacks on overhead wires to keep away woodland creatures, and headed down to the rushing stream.  Bill began to fish.   He cast his line into the water with one motion, and with the second swing of his arm, pulled out a seven-inch brook trout.   He laughed out loud, thinking he had just snagged the lure on a rock or leaf.

As dusk settled, Bill prepared supper - little pouches of soup heated in boiling water, hot tea, and  M&M's for dessert.  He made a campfire, starting with a tiny teepee of twigs and adding sticks one by one.  The almost-full moon ascended like the headlights of a car, its beams slicing through the trees, like a medieval painting of God speaking to the saints.

I heard a crackle sound.   "Just some leaves falling," I said cheerfully to Bill.  "Didn't sound like that to me," he said as he covered up the last embers of the dying fire.  My courage continued its slow leak.  We removed our shoes at the tent door and snuggled into our sleeping bags.  He was wearing a t-shirt and shorts.  I was fully dressed, afraid that I would be cold.  Every couple of minutes, I shed another layer, my sleeping bag now like a fiery furnace.

I heard the immediate slow breathing of my "can-sleep-anywhere" husband next to me.  And I began playing a deadly game called "WHAT WAS THAT NOISE?"  startled by every tree that creaked.  I imagined the worst for HOURS, childhood fears and scary movies remembered in gory detail.   A frog croaked a rhythmic tune, over and over, convincing me that it would not be singing so freely if there was a predator about.  And then, it stopped.  Oh, great.  

Finally, I persuaded myself that no one tweeted the ferocious beasts of the forest about an all-you-can-eat buffet at campsite 39.  The tent was not edible.  And God's words, "Fear not, I am with you" were still a valid promise.  Bill, who has delighted in camping under the stars for 50 years since he was a Cub Scout, slept peacefully.   I dozed off.

In the morning, I was reminded of my mother's words after I had finished my first marathon, "Thank goodness, you are still alive."  All my imagined fears had done was rob me of a good night's sleep and dull the wonder around me.  

I don't want to live like that, fearful and joyless.

I emerged from the tent.  Bill already preparing hot tea and oatmeal.  I looked up and saw the top of a mountain crowned by the early morning sun, a picture of majesty and grace.

I did not freeze to death.
I did not die.
I did not get eaten by a bear.

Indeed, the only wildlife we saw at all was the one teeny fish Bill caught and released, and on our way back to the truck, about a mile from our campsite, two wild turkeys playing in the creek.

I survived unscathed, my phantoms rebuked, and since none of the pictures survived as evidence, well, I look forward to going again.