“Aren’t you worried? Going alone?”

I don’t get into the wilderness nearly as much as I would prefer, but from time to time I do. And in the days leading up to these excursions, I usually just can’t shut up about it either. Other folks (usually co-workers) inquire on the danger or risk levels involved with being alone and distant in the Mountains and the question that is asked most often is “aren’t you scared?” I usually explain that this isn’t my first trip, that I have a fair amount of experience, or rattle off equipment that reduces the liklihood of truly dire outcomes, and basically just minimize any risks associated with being in remote nature, alone, unsupported.

The truth of the matter though is that fear is a part of the experience, and yes — of course I worry; of course I have some fear.

On my latest trip, a planned 6-day trip surveying the Emigrant, Yosemite and Hoover wildernesses of California’s Sierra Mountains I spent a lot of time in the lead-up thinking negative thoughts about the entire thing. First, I was worried about the mosquitoes – and particularly worried about my committment to the mileage in the face of undeterred swarms. How would I react if they simply did not let up and my repellent wasn’t doing the trick at the height of mosquito season? I was worried about the possibility of spraining an ankle or breaking a bone, alone, 25 trail-miles and 2 days away from a car. I was worried about car problems getting there or back, critical gear failures deep into the wilderness, Mountain Lion encounters that might completely re-route my path in country with not a lot of options. Probably most significantly, I worried about wasting six days of possibility–days which I could devote to anything–but invested in a project that I might actually discover wasn’t so important to me after all. I was afraid I’d get a few miles or a day and a half into it, by myself, and think “meh – I’ve done this before, elsewhere, but I think I’d rather just go home.”

The solitude of backpacking solo makes it a radically different experience than ‘normal backpacking’ (with others) in my estimation, particularly the deeper one goes into remote spaces. Years ago, on a planned 4 day trip, I drove five and a half hours at night to get to a particular trailhead by morning, then hiked all day to get to a certain spot. I set up camp in late afternoon, only to realize by nightfall that, having been in that drainage before, there was no sense of exploration or excitement motivating me to stay. I was in a spot, again, only this time, I had no one to talk to or share the experience with. I hiked out the next morning. When you are alone, there is no consensus to acheive; you can quit any time, just turn around.

For all my negative thoughts on this most recent trip however — negativity which increased in both frequency and intensity, the closer I got to the trailhead in time and distance — by the time I was fifteen minutes into the woods, it was all gone. The roughest period of doubt, in fact, was during the handful of miles from the Highway 108 turnoff to the trailhead itself. I was honestly considering just turning around and driving three hours back. And then, once on the trail, suddenly, they just melted away. I remember contemplating that evaporation for about a mile at least and then returning to it periodically over the days that followed. Whether there is a lesson there for other parts of one’s experiene I won’t bother arguing here, but I simply wanted to follow up on a decision I made while out there, that I would come back and at least be open about that fear and how it impacts me and argue for it being normal, reasonable and common.

 

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