Column
by Valerie Kennan
As I watched the starlit sky, I was convinced I was about to die. I grew up in the suburbs of Boston, Massachusetts, where the most dangerous animal in town was the neighbor’s untrained dog. Living in Montana, a weekend camping trip forces me to face that the elements— be it rain, rocks, bears, etc.—can swallow me whole.
Last month, I camped with someone I love very much in a national forest. I have never camped in a national forest. I have especially never arrived at 11:32 pm to look for a campsite on the side of a mountain, where the road would be impassable to most cars. This person I love very much has a sense for when to go deeper into the mountain. My main sense is when to tell him we’re about to drive off a cliff.
We passed a group of tents separated by courtesy, but there wasn’t room for another vehicle. We drove until the road ended, blinding two men who probably didn’t want high beams with their beers.
After finding a space, my friend started a (contained) fire. He said it would keep the animals away. I didn’t believe him. A group of coyotes howled in the distance, and I scanned the grass for glowing eyes. Mid-scan, I was haunted by the sense that I’d been here before. Not this exact location, but a continuous repetition of lifetimes of Valeries surviving the dark woods.
An airplane crossing the sky made my shoulders drop with relief. Even seeing signs of humanity in that uninhabited arena brought comfort. Which makes no sense, right? If a bear attacked, none of them could have helped—we were imperceptible dots. I thought of the two men with beers and the considerate campers and was catapulted to a time where humans moved like bison: in packs, coexisting without interacting. Close enough to help in an emergency, but not so close to pose a threat.
Three weeks later, I broke my foot on my first backpacking venture. I’m a clumsy endurance runner, but the weight in my pack averages to three bags of electrolyte gummies and two and a half liters of water. This night, when I slipped (as I often do), the weight of my pack split three bones in my feet. It turns out the difference between courage and stupidity is informed curiosity.
We were more than halfway to the campsite, and I had the option of either returning to the dark bear and bison country at the top of the trail, or continuing through sulfur mines minus predators to the campsite. I chose the latter. The weight of the pack made me a toddler learning to walk, and my improper shoes were soaked. In the universe’s perfect jest, my fatigue and broken foot had to cross two creeks. I tested my non-injured foot on the first rock and watched it slip like butter in a pan. It was the perfect recipe for a cracked skull, and something in me shifted. I handed my pack and both shoes to my friend. He looked back at me, confused. Some part of me, the part that felt safe in the national forest, knew how to cross a creek—but it wasn’t compatible with the part that traded bills for rubber soles. Bicycle gears churned in my soul, and one socked foot in front of the other crossed the wet rocks. When I got to the other side, a deep knowing took over—we are still animals.
These scenarios forced time travel, like the smell of perfume reminding you of your grandmother, or a brand of cereal pulling you back to childhood. Only difference is, these experiences pulled on memories I didn’t have, things that I didn’t know I knew. The animal instinct is still there, but it’s rarely relevant. I don’t know many bears sitting by a creek calculating their next paycheck. The key is, when I lose myself in that environment, I can time travel backwards through evolution.