My family and friends tell me they don’t want me to do certain things; things that are potentially dangerous; things that could even get me killed. Hiking alone in the woods certainly has a potential for danger. The most likely culprits being: I could be bitten by a snake, slip and fall from a very high place, trip on a root and break my leg, get lost, infection, burns, blisters, cut myself with my knife, dehydration, or overexposure to extreme temperatures and the sun, etc.  

The most common but unlikely fears of my folks are that I will (a) be eaten by a bear, or (b) attacked by bandits in the woods, or (c) both. They tell me that I should wait until someone goes with me. 

*Just to clarify, when I say hiking I mean backpacking, which is hiking + camping.*  

While I would love to have a regular hiking partner (or even a biological brother, or cousin) who mirrors my interests, would have my back at all times, would not be worn down by the long miles and elevation changes, would have the requisite experience, is not an egomaniac, or would not be prone to pissing contests, the odds of finding a suitable hiking partner are slim to none. Believe me, over the last 20 years I have tried.  

I could go hiking with an established group, but you lose your autonomy, you become the low man on the totem pole, they are cliquish, and these groups are often full of alpha-males prone to pissing contests. And then there is that whole thing with having to get used to new people. Uh, yeah, no. I like being alone. My best chance of finding a good hiking partner is to have a well-trained, large sturdy dog (and I am working on that).  

I will freely admit that backpacking alone can be challenging at times. When the sun starts to cross the tree-line in the evening, and all of the nocturnal creatures start to wake up, the deep forest becomes a different place entirely. Eyes from grazing deer reflect the light of your headlamp. Trees become animated humanoid effigies. Dark shadows creep from the light of your campfire. You hear sounds you have never heard before; your mind matrixes the sound of a small rodent foraging through the underbrush, making you believe that a man is sneaking up on your camp. Birds crow and hoot. In some cases, wolves or dogs howl. The clatter of water hitting rock in a nearby stream sounds like disembodied voices. And the only part of civilization that you can connect with is a distant jetliner streaming 6 or 7 miles above your head. After the sun goes down, you know that you are trapped; utterly, helplessly alone in a dark gloomy forest…at least until morning.  

When the sun goes down, I would be a liar if I said fear doesn’t hit me like a punch in the stomach. When camping with friends, dusk is never a problem, but being alone in the woods is a different story entirely.  

Some fear is good. It keeps you mentally sharp. You think about ways to keep yourself safe. You feel each muscle in your body; every bone you’ve ever broken. You are incredibly aware of your surroundings. Your primal-self starts to emerge. You enjoy a beautiful vista atop precipitous cliffs, but you also respect the sand under your feet that could carry you over the edge. The realization that you live a pampered life in your city-home continuously runs through your mind. Your cognizance and physical being are at odds, screaming “you don’t belong here!” while simultaneously “this is your natural home!”  

When friends and family assail me with a litany of unwarranted fears before a trip, it tends to work on my resolve. It makes me want to wuss out. It makes me avoid the people who tell me these things. I have to lie to love ones so I don’t have to hear their pleadings. I appreciate their concerns. But if I waited until I found a proper hiking partner I would die of old age first.  

I saw a story on the news today about a cancer patient who was visited by her horse at the hospital for one last sad goodbye. She also happens to be a neighbor that has lived behind my parents for nearly 50 years. My mom is a friend of the family. I imagine the incredible fear she must be experiencing knowing that her life may be slipping away. I have the most profound compassion for her and her family. I cannot even begin to understand the pain and heartbreak they all must be feeling. But there is one thing I understand beyond a shadow of a doubt; her desire to climb up on the back of that horse so she can ride away and feel normal again.  

I could give into my fears and stay at home. I could tell myself maybe things will be better tomorrow.  

Or I can go out and experience all of the things that life has to offer now, while I’m still young and have vitality.  

Fear is the mind killer. I’m okay hiking alone.