Nothing and No One but Time

—Alone in grizzly country

Word spread around the hangar like wildfire.

"You're going to camp up there?!" They'd ask me in disbelief.

I'm unsure if the shock came from being a woman camping alone or a person camping alone in remote, grizzly territory. Probably both.

It was the way their eyes bulged and then walked away shaking their heads. I could hear their thoughts.

"She's crazy."

Maybe I am.

I thought I'd be scared when the helicopter pulled away and its echo died, leaving me in silence. But I wasn't scared and it wasn't silent. A bird chirped joyfully from a rock at the lake's edge, and the waterfalls hummed a never-ending song. I might be a woman, but I'm not alone here. The mosquitos are quite enamoured with me. They beat at the door of my tent like drunk, lustful men, begging to be let in. But like those men, they don't make great houseguests and must be left outside.

"Aren't you scared?" they'd ask, like being scared is a reason not to go.

Of course I'm scared. I get scared in the days leading up to any solo trip—from the anticipation and the what ifs.

What if I get mauled by a grizzly? I'm scared of that happening, but I figure I have a better chance of getting mauled by a bear in the trails behind my house as I do here and that never stopped me from biking, running, or walking in those trails. Why should it stop me from taking a helicopter into the Coast Range and camping amongst the wild flowers, awaking to take my guests on a lazy paddle around a glacial lake?

I understand their concern though. It's sweet really.

If I can be honest with you for a minute, I'm much more scared of people than I am of animals. Animals are predictable. They want food, and they want to protect that food, themselves, and their offspring. People on the other hand will hurt you for sport. These days, I'm more comfortable camping alone in the remote wilderness without another soul on the mountain than I am at a campground with other campers. Even when I'm with a friend.

I remember the switch happening. It was a solo bike tour through the Discovery Islands, where I had a whole lagoon to myself, and lazed nakedly on the hot rocks, dipping occasionally into the sparkling waters to cool down. There was no cell reception and I was alone. I remember wanting to call Chris. To check social media. If only I had someone to talk to. Some to distract me from me. That's when it hit me. I knew this feeling. This loneliness. It was the same ache for companionship from my youth. That same ache that compelled me to fill my life with busyness so that I never had time to feel it. And here I was, a decade later, naked on a hot rock with nothing and no one but Time.

I have never felt lonely in my own company since, and I wonder if that's what they meant when they asked me if I was scared. Scared to be alone. Scared to feel lonely. Scared to be with my own thoughts and feelings. No, I'm not scared of that. Not anymore. And like I said, I'm not alone out here anyway. Since pulling out my food sac, a shrew the size of my thumb, wrapped in walnut fur, and with a snout nearly half the length of his body, scurries and hops amongst the nearby rocks. The birds that once chirped on those rocks have lent themselves to bathing and playing in the water. Dunking beneath its cool surface and splashing it over their wings. Two hummingbirds chase each other, squeaking, through the fireweed. There's waterfalls and glaciers and clouds and insects I've never seen before. There's a whole life out here and for one night I get to be a part of it. So no, I'm not scared, I'm blessed.

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