Feeling the Fear

Always in the big woods when you leave familiar ground and step off alone into a new place there will be, along with the feelings of curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. It is the ancient fear of the Unknown and it is your first bond with the wilderness you are going into.

Wendell Berry

Since my early twenties, which has now been a long time ago, I have taken a yearly backpacking trip, typically seven to ten days. I would look at a map and select the route, always trying to find the places where the wilderness would seem real, crowds would be minimal, and I could get away from the life of a busy parent with a demanding career for a week of inspiration and renewal.

The exception was a three year period after my twin daughters were born. Of course I had other demands after their birth, and leaving them for even a few days was not realistic. Extended infant care was expensive, nor did I want to leave their smiling faces and laughter for very long.

When they were three years old my husband offered to take a week off work so that I could go to the mountains. I quickly packed my gear and food and headed to the North Cascades, where I planned a trip from Ross Lake to Mt. Baker, a section of what is now the Pacific Northwest Trail. I experienced considerable trepidation as I prepared for this trip and drove east on the North Cascades Highway on the day of my departure. I was by then an experienced outdoor adventurer, so the increase in anxiety was hard to explain. Perhaps it was simply that the stakes were higher. I had two little girls who would miss me and whose lives would be forever changed should I not return home safely.

It was cloudy when I left home in the early morning, and as often happens in the mountains, gray skies can turn into stormy skies. I pulled off onto a viewpoint above Ross Lake and looked west towards Crater Mountain, where there was a new layer of snow. It was not a great day to be headed into the mountains alone. I knew this. The dark sky made it seem even more ominous.

Still, I was puzzled by the intensity of my fear. I was no stranger to cold weather in the mountains. I had pitched my tent in snow, rain, and wind, and always returned safely to the trailhead at the end of my trip. Had a three year break allowed me to lose the confidence that backpacking always provided for me? All of the terrible things that could go wrong began to come into my mind unbidden, and I could not shake the fear.

I did what I always do when feeling overwhelmed. I put my heavy pack on my back and set out on the trail. There is nothing to do at such times but to put one foot in front of the other, and the certainty of my footsteps on solid ground has always been reassuring to me. It would be a couple of days before I would be in the high country. I had my down bag and a tent to keep me warm and dry in the meantime.

I made camp that first night in Big Beaver Valley, surrounded by some of the world’s largest western red cedar trees which towered above me. They were comforting somehow, like guardians keeping watch. It rained hard that night and throughout the following day. I spent an extra night in camp, waiting for the rain to stop before resuming my journey. The third day the sun came out, and I ascended into that ominous high country, where avalanche lilies bloomed under the weight of recent snow, and I felt the fear leave me in the clean blue air of a mountain pass, remembering why I was there.

Since that trip many years ago I have paid closer attention to that fear. It was not a unique experience, and I expect it now, even welcome it. As always the trail is my teacher. It reminds me that I am taking a risk, and the events of the next few days cannot possibly be known. These days I worry less about weather and more about falls, since I have an aging body that breaks more easily than it used to.

For the most part my fears have never kept me from doing the things I want to do, not because I am brave, more that I am simply stubborn. This is what I want to do today. I may fall and break a hip. It would be another great adventure. I can do this.