Laying flat on my back, wrapped in my fluffy orange Kelty dry-down sleeping bag, and atop my Thermarest Z-lite accordion ground pad, I wiggle my face down a little further, and pull the thick lip of the top opening of my mummy sack, up over my eyes. My eyes are already closed in a way that is so un-moving it is as if I am actually blind. My lids are calm, flat, and fully covering my corneas. There is no strain of muscles or wrinkles of skin, just a factual state of blocking out any possible vision of the world.  Thick rain drops, mixed with dirt, trees and the fresh water lake only 15 feet away from my nostrils, waft in that intoxicating smell, reminiscent of childhood. The smell brings me back to Spring in California, sitting down by the river watching the water getting closer and closer to overflowing the banks. Sweat begins pooling on my lower back, neck, elbow pits, and the cheeks on my face. Every breath I take, bounces immediately off of my thick zero degree three-season backpacking sleeping bag which no normal person would actually use in this mid-July weather. Fully protected from the precipitation, my rain fly tied down taut, along with a seemingly impermeable ground pad, one would assume (even my own self) that I felt safe.

Bright white flashes across my double sealed vision. My entire body jerks as my fingers get further wrapped up in the interior of the lip of the sleeping bag, tugging the down fluffed material up, continuing to attempt to conceal by poor brain from processing what is happening around me.  Almost immediately, the world around me, on all sides, begins to rumble, deep and long. Roaring both in volume, and by quaking that ground which is only half an inch beneath my skin, nature’s power shakes my own limbs into an inconsolable tremble.  My own mind unable to determine the exact location from whence these vibrations are coming, because both the auditory and physical embodiment blend together, beginning to my right, then hopping over to the left, and bursting up right ahead of me, seemingly on top of the lake only a handful of steps away from my own feet.  Just as my comforting sleeping bag surrounds me fully, so do these booms, cracks, and rumbles. And, the light.  In contrast, rather than comforting me, nature’s force is wrapping me up with fear.

As soon as my breathing and heart rate calm to a pace akin to one who might be walking in a hurriedly state (yes, in this moment, that would be calm) the world behind my eyelids once again turns completely white. Heart rate sky rockets back to a sprinting speed, my veins pulsing panic throughout each limb.  The lion in the sky and the herd of elephants on the ground awaken instantly after the whiteout, once again.  Tears streaming down my red hot cheeks, lips in an ugly upside-down and tensed frown, mouth gaped open only revealing my two top front teeth, I sob with pleas to anyone who could possible hear me.

No one.

No one can hear me. I am alone. Solo. In full solitude. Isolated in the backcountry, camping in a solitary campsite, with zero people within view or earshot. Alone.

My entire physical self vibrating with horror, emotions and imagination take over and I am entirely convinced that tonight could be my very last night on this earth.

The storms nearness to my location, its clear power, along with my isolation and daily assumption that I may die, create a recipe for the most terror I have ever experienced in the outdoors.  I conclude that if I do not do anything right now, I will die. How, you ask? Lightning, I guess. Or maybe the storm freaks out a bear or a moose and the animal charges through at my tent and I am toppled or devoured!  I weigh my options. I crave the safety of my truck, with its large rubber tires, walls, a room, an engine to take me nearly wherever I please quickly, and her closeness to the road where other people pass by. Oh Yoshi. I long for Yoshi. She is only 0.7 miles away. That’s it! I could run that in maybe five to eight minutes! Sigh. This is not a safe option. Running through the woods in the middle of the night during a storm (leaving all my belongings behind mind you) would more likely cause me to run into and frighten large wild animal.  Other options?  Call or text someone on my mobile phone using the one bar of reception that I have at this campsite.  The tears slowing and drying, and the shaking calming, I turn my head slightly and reach for my phone to turn it right side up and view the time, finally sliding my eyelids back for just a moment.

“23:52,” glows on the middle of the black screen. Profanities cross my mind and escape my lips.  No one I am close to will be awake right now, except for my brother. Moreover, what could anyone do if he/she answered? All that will happen is I will be distracted from trying to calm myself on my own, and person on the receiving end will have to be worried about me and feel helpless. This is good for no one.

The lightening catches me by surprise and jumps out while my eyes are not properly shielded by my two layers of defense.  My throat producing some sort off, “uhhhh, hmmmm,” noises of anguish, the lids return to their position over the corneas, and the lip of the sleeping bag is clasped by my fingers and thrown over my forehead once again.  Without the capability to produce any additional coherent thoughts, non-coherent words tremble off my tongue, engaging in a last ditch effort to, “do something.”

I pray.

Speaking to the only possible “being” who would potentially hear me, I begin my plea. Starting with admissions of not engaging in conversations often or lately, I express my gratitude, and explain how I choose to be “spiritual” through loving and appreciating nature, and loving and appreciating other beings.

I beg, “please let me get back to my truck tomorrow.”

I reason, “I want to hug those I love, again.”

I promise, “I will not camp alone in the backcountry anymore.”

My unrequited conversation continues until I begin to run out the energy for producing tears and a trembling torso. At one point, the thunder sounds far away, and the cracks, flashes of light, and booms, have long breaks in between. Always a great sign that the storm is moving, and after a solid hour of repetitive intervals prior, feelings of relief begin to form. Suddenly, the lion and herd of elephants are back with a vengeance! By now, my body is so exhausted from the panic and distress that my heart is near giving up and letting the storm take me away. Fortunately, once again, the storm takes another hairpin turn, and begins to slowly wander away – flashes and booms more separated, and vibrations from the ground ceasing.

The skin curtains fluttering open the next morning, allowing my vision to actually take in my surroundings, a wave of thankfulness and relief, along with a fog of exhaustion and post-trauma make up my state of being.  Beginning the “pack up camp” routine – a morning ritual as familiar and easy as the “take a shower and brush your teeth” of the indoor world – I go through the motions like a zombie, vaguely processing the sentences echoing from my Anker portable bluetooth speaker, with the quirky British accent, expressing the details of the day that Jane Eyre’s school friend died.  Clapping my hands, and announcing, “hey bear, coming through!” as I stumbled over to the “food pole” a bit north of my camp, I am both surprised and proud to find that none of the items I stacked on top of my Bear Vault bear canister had moved an inch. Even packing up the sopping wet rainfly, tent and footprint do not phase my experienced backpacker palms and brain. Rolling the poles and stakes inside just the interior tent, I keep both the rainfly and the footprint separate from the main tent to limit extra soaking, and strap things onto my pack, Petunia, as I have done at least a handful of post rain nights, or dewy mornings, before.

Along the trail back, my once energetic and goofy singing voice had dropped to a lethargic and sullen squeak, choking out words syllable by syllable.  The crisp concrete of the parking lot, and the shine from vehicles pristine paint jobs, both in view, I hear car doors opening and shutting. Excited for the comfort of other human beings, and also slightly embarrassed that there will be people around to witness what I am about to do, I announce aloud to my new backpacking crew (myself), “I do not give a shit. I am doing it anyway.” Yoshi’s deep green paint sparkles from fresh rain drops which seem to have washed away the layer upon layers (upon layers) of dirt and mud. I walk up to her, already forgetting the other people just three cars down in the parking lot, plop Petunia down on the ground, lean my Black Diamond trekking poles (with the 20016 National Park Centennial design) against her, and head to the driver side near the hood. Flailing my arms out in both directions, I bend forward slightly, lay my head upon the hood, breath a deep breath in, and let out a long, gratitude and joy filled sigh.

Why did I tell you this largely embarrassing, detailed story of my third ever night solo in the backcountry?  It brings a question to mind that not only have I been contemplating internally, but have also been attempting to discuss with others:

Why are things easier and less scary with another person, than when alone?

Let us use this example of my horrifying night in the backcountry as an example. How would things have been different if one of my backpacking buddies was actually there with me, in the tent, like they have been so many nights before?  If my man was there, he would likely hold me close, and reassure me that we are safe and will be fine, steadying my shakes, and limiting my tears (if only due to my need to not appear to be a wussy female around others). If my adventure buddy, who shared a tent with me the entirety of hiking the John Muir Trail, and countless other nights in the backcountry of the Sierras and New Zealand, was by my side, we would probably both be pretty freaked out. We may start laughing together at our own ridiculousness, and the calamity of the situation. Worse case scenario, we were in this experience together. If we go out together, so be it, at least we had each other in those last moments.

Having someone with you seems to do one of a few things:

1. Remind you of logical facts, or potentially comfort you with lies, depending on the situation.
2. Provide physical touch which calms our nerves, and makes us more present and less inside our heads.
3. Remove the possibility of experiencing something difficult, or horrible alone. I.e. someone is literally just there.

How often do you hear, or read, the words, “you are not alone.” This phrase is used in relation to those suffering from an alcohol addiction, a physical or mental illness, grieving the death of a loved one, or a non-supportive environment of one’s own personal identity/religion/life choices.  The feeling of being alone is potentially one of the most (if not the most) difficult feelings one can experience. It is that feeling that you could just flutter away, and no one would notice or care. Or, that feeling that absolutely no one understands what you are going through. Or the feeling of helplessness, or hopelessness – just not knowing how to get out of whatever you are stuck in that is causing you pain.

Not sure of where to take this conversation, I thought to type a list of the times and circumstances where I have felt the most alone. However, that list is too long, and sometimes, too personal to just write as a bullet point. Maybe, what we all need right now is a reminder of how to not feel alone. What has worked in the past?

• Wear (or imprint) a reminder from a loved one: My magpie tattoo on my left forearm is a memorial for my mother (who passed away April 2nd, 2015). It not only makes me feel she is with me, but it also is flying straight ahead, reminding me to keep moving forward. I also have a necklace from her and my father, a ring and earrings that remind me of the growth and healing I experienced while in New Zealand. I wear these all daily.
• Text or call someone you love: Sometimes, we have to be the ones to reach out to them, and say, “thinking about you,” or, “I miss you.” It is okay to reach out to them when we need them. It is important that we do. Would you want someone you love to reach out to you when you are feeling alone and in need of a friend? Of course you would!  My “sisters”, brother, and partner, are always in a close circle of people on talk to on a nearly daily, if not weekly, basis, even if just for the little reminders of love.
• Make a new friend: This is almost guaranteed to not be in our control, but there are ways that we can at least try to make it happen. Smile and interact with those around you. Engage in social opportunities where there will be like-minded people (ex. a community art class, yoga, movie night or potluck, ranger talks at the national parks, couchsurfing, meetups, book readings, hostels, coffee shops).
• Engage in a solo activity, intentionally, that is guaranteed to be relaxing and easy: Go for flat, easy, walk. Pull out the kayak, canoe, or paddle board, get up early, and whisk yourself through the smooth calm water. Listen to an audio book that is purely entertaining. Enjoy a cup of tea, outdoors, with zero other distractions. Play some of your favorite music, whether on your personal instrument, or from any device. Eat a brownie, or ice cream guilt free OR cook a delicious and healthy meal from scratch OR whip up a comfort meal that reminds you of someone you love. Meditate! Do some sun salutations (yoga)! Stretch your body!
• Get productive on a passion project: Spend time on a personal hobby (photography, knitting, painting) or get involved with a nonprofit you care about (volunteer at the soup kitchen, spread the word about a campaign you support, or assist in a community garden).
• Spend time away from social media: Often times, online communities can make us feel more alone, rather than less.  Reality is filtered in these environments. People often only share the good occurrences and not the tough times, therefore it seems like everyone else’s life is pure amazing. Instead, everyone is going through something tough. Reach out to someone directly. Be present. I have actually taken deliberate stints away from our most popular social media site whenever I am battling depression or anxiety, because I have noticed that I tend to reach for it at those times even more, to fill a void I do not know how to fill.
• Dig into your own feelings and emotions and try to determine what you need most, right now: Introspection and deliberate rumination can be some of the most critical tools. Often times, we struggle to get out of the feeling of being alone, or whatever we are struggling with, because we cannot pinpoint what is the root issue, and what we really want. Do you need more sleep? Do you need care-free alone time without any feelings or guilt or responsibility?  Do you need a healthy meal? Do you need to turn off your mind for a bit and watch a funny movie? Do you need a nice long hot shower? Do you need the comforts of a hotel, or visiting family? Do you need more money? There are actual activities/techniques one can utilize in order to help figure out what is the root cause of our struggle (if you want guidance on this, please contact me). Many times, these questions are too hard to answer without help, which is why I have seen a therapist during various periods of my life, and countless others have as well.

What do you do in order to not feel alone? What has worked for you in the passed when you are feeling lonely? What difference do you think it makes when you have someone by your side? Please add your comments below. I am no expert. This is a open conversation, where we can all help each other. Why?

We are not alone.