by Laura Crum
I
had gone to live alone at Burgson Lake when I was twenty-two years old,
envisioning a mystical communion with nature, and in some ways that did happen
(see my previous post here), but a lot else happened that I didn’t expect. For
one thing, I was often scared.
I
hadn’t expected to be scared. It had never, in fact, occurred to me that I
might be scared. I wasn’t prone to being nervous; I didn’t mind being alone.
And in the daytime I was fine. Not scared at all. But…
Almost
every evening, as it began to grow dark, the nervous feeling would creep upon
me, spoiling my peace. I would hear rustles in the brush, and wonder if it
might be bears, or worse yet, men who meant me harm. It didn’t matter that my
logical mind knew it was deer. Something about the dark rendered my logical
mind useless.
Or
rather, my logical mind was only useful for pointing out stuff that made my
fear worse. You are miles from anyone who might help you, it said. If something
happens to you here, you are on your own. No one will come to your aid. There
is no calling 911.
This
was true. It was long before the era of cell phones (around 1980), and cell
phones didn’t work from that spot the last time I was there (five years ago).
Even if you could have called for help, it would take at least two or three
hours for anyone to get there, if they could have found their way. Even if
someone else, unknown to me, was camped in my area, the only likely spots for
them to be were all a few miles away. Yelling for help would avail nothing. I
really was on my own, dependent on my own resources.
It
wasn’t that I hadn’t expected this. I had sought it, after all. I just hadn’t
had any idea what it would feel like to be completely on my own, cut off from
all other humans. My mortality, something that at twenty-two I had been
reasonably able to ignore, was thrown right in my face. I mean, I realized I
could DIE out here. Of course, I could die anywhere. But in the safe-seeming
realm of civilization, it was easy to forget this fact. It was impossible to
forget it alone here in the wilderness at night (or so I found). Bull frogs
would croak and I’d imagine intruders. I would think about how vulnerable I was
with no weapon and plan to run into the dark and hide. I’d listen and stare
into the night and feel anxious. I also felt pissed. This wasn’t what I had
hoped to experience, for God’s sake. I’d hoped to feel mystical oneness with
nature, not scared of the dark. I built the fire up and drank wine and at last
I would fall asleep.
Every
morning I awoke with the sun and felt fine; the night’s fears seemed silly in
the bright light of a mountain dawn. I ate granola and dried fruit for
breakfast and bathed in the lake. Some days I hiked, some days I stayed at the
lake and read and swam. But fear didn’t really leave me; it returned at dusk
right on schedule. And after a week of this I hiked to my truck at the
trailhead, drove an hour to town, and borrowed a pistol from my boyfriend.
After that I slept with the pistol under my pillow and the nights were better.
I
hiked with the pistol on my hip and I kept the pistol next to me day and night.
I felt a LOT less vulnerable (and I got some funny looks from hikers that I met
on the trail). But the bottom line remained the same. Some days I would swim
across the lake, and almost always, when I got to the middle, it would occur to
me that I could drown out here—no one would save me. The pistol wasn’t going to
help with that. I’d float on my back and remind myself that I could float like
this endlessly and there was no need to drown. And then I’d swim the rest of
the way across the lake to be greeted enthusiastically my dog, who seemed to
worry that I would drown quite a bit more than I did.
Since
I am writing this, it is evident that I did not perish during my summer at
Burgson Lake. In fact, I didn’t even have a truly negative experience. I never
got close to drowning. I never saw a bear, though I saw fresh bear scat. I saw
three rattlesnakes, but none were a problem. I was never threatened by a human,
though I had a few odd encounters.
Occasionally
people would camp at my lake. Sometimes they would want to be social. One young
guy was determined to have a drink with me, but he didn’t give me any grief (I
had the gun on my hip the whole time). One Saturday, however, three guys who
were obviously very drunk at noon came riding in on horses, singing and
hollering. I heard them coming from my camp and watched them through
binoculars. My tent was hidden in the trees and I knew they didn’t know I was
there. There were three of them. And I made a quick choice. I packed a few
essentials and slipped out the back way. They never even saw me. I hiked out to
my truck and spent that weekend in town. When I returned on Monday, my camp was
undisturbed. But I still think I made the right call.
So,
truly the only thing I actually had to fear was fear itself. That and the very
real truth of my own mortality. But, of course, I could have faced/found that
truth in many ways. This just happened to be the way I stumbled upon it.
However, there is one thing worth mentioning. And it is this. It is different
to be alone. Really alone.
(To be continued.)
For those who are wondering what in the world this post has
to do with horses, it is a postscript to a fairly long (twelve post) saga I
wrote about my life with horses. That saga begins here. And many of the
insights and observations I made in my journals during my time at Burgson Lake
found their way into my fifth book, Slickrock. This book is based mostly on the
horse packing trips I did in my thirties, but much of the writing about
solitude in the mountains comes from my early journals at Burgson Lake. Click
on the title to find the Kindle edition of this book (which is just $2.99).
