Out of the Woods

            It’s like meditation, but instead of repeating a mantra, I’m constantly refocusing my attention on survival.  Where is the next water source?  Do I have enough snacks rationed to munch another date ball?  Is the tent protected from falling tree limbs?  How many Mississippis until that storm on the darkening horizon strikes?  And then, comfort.  Continuously adjusting the myriad of straps hugging my hips and aching shoulders, quelling voracious hunger as the packaged ramen cooks al dente, submerging into the crystal clear albeit chilly waters of Lake Superior, just to slough off a layer of grime before slipping into damp jammies rank with last night’s campfire. 

           Wait…this isn’t the right trail? Each step backtracking vexes my ailing toes tenfold.  My blisters have their own names and heartbeats.  I hope that hit of Purelle thoroughly cleansed the pulsing wounds, speckled with sand and dirt.  “Infection is the greatest threat in the backcountry,” my backpacking guru, Nicole, imparts.  I can’t afford to lose a toe.  Without health insurance, I’ll just have them take me to next door Canada.  Though, I don’t know who “they” are.  Nobody is coming to rescue us.  Even if I had cell service, I would rather Doordash a bottle of chilled champagne to our unknown coordinates. 

          I chase away fears of amputation with fantasies of a pumpkin spice latte that would dispel the chill permeating my bones under wet clothes.  Do I have poison ivy on my butt or is that an unidentified bug bite? Fear rears its ugly head inside mine again.  Besides ticks and mosquitos there are biting black flies, wholly unfazed by DEET, chiggers and sand flies (though perhaps those are one pest in the same?), which prevent me from zenning out with yoga stretches on the white sugar beaches.   I should fish out my phone from the Ziplock to snap a shot of paint streaked cliffs cascading into turquoise waters.  Instead I consume a CLIF bar.  Only one left. 

           Chad would love this.  I wonder what he’s doing now.  I wonder if he still loves me.  I wonder if I’m running away from my grief.  Impossible, as I can’t run.  I trudge on stumps, wincing as a blister finally pops, gushing pus onto dampening socks.  Every article on my body and back is on its way to wet.  It’s a little too late to realize that the 15-year-old football spectator poncho that I found bundled in my parents garage might not be the best rain protection, especially with the sprinkling of holes around its neck.  At least my sopping boots provide cooling relief to angry blisters.  The best part about hiking in the rain is that it speeds the pace.  Only 6 more miles i.e. 3 hours to camp.  I can’t wait for oatmeal in the morning.  And pepperoni pizza, God willing that I make it out of these woods. 

            I entered this uncivilized territory with vain hopes of mental clarity.  Instead my mind is riddled with thoughts: of survival, of comforts, of the breathtaking beauty inundating my senses.  Rain speckled sunglass lenses slip from my wet head to nose.  What else can I do but laugh—at my optimistic hippie naivety that this would be a chance to commune with nature and my higher, intuitive self.  Everything dries, I remind myself… except for the sodden oatmeal made sludge in the stuff sack dangling from the bear pole in the torrential downpour.  Are we out of the woods yet?  I’m almost out of words.  Literally, as my pen scratches futilely against moist journal pages. 

            No one forced me.  I chose to be here, with the howling wolves, hooting owls, and whimsical monarchs bound for Mexico.  “Why would anyone do this?” Meghan ponders aloud, shooing away a fly that’s seemingly nonplussed by the fire’s smoke assaulting her watering eyes.  I’m too focused on shoveling sporkfuls of tepid curry chickpeas into my mouth to answer.  Besides, I don’t know.  Not many moons ago I would’ve griped that I’d come to a fork in life’s journey where my options were either walk into the unbound wild, or walk into oncoming traffic.  Suicidal ideation at bay I realize that, like the peripheral pine saplings lining the trail, I want to survive, to make it not only out of the wilderness but as a writer, a yoga teacher, a student in Chinese.  I navigate my way out of depression’s slump by traversing this pea green bubble nesting my beaten body, zinging mind, and slightly cracked spirit.  Somehow I slog on, placing one mud caked boot spurting a cocktail of fluids in front of another. 

            The sun shines faintly behind wispy clouds.  I sweat shame and shed tears and scratch, scratch, scratch.  Later, lightning strikes nearby, electrifying the Earth.  My snuggling comrades won’t sense my stress.  It slips off the Xanax poncho cocooning my mind like the rain wicking off the tent’s fly.  If you’re meant to hang you’ll never drown, my dad’s voice reassures in my memory as water pools around our tent.  Our backpacks were supposed to be lightest on the last day, but they’re drenched, laden with waterlogged equipment.  The last mile is warped into eons, a psychedelic stretch that keeps unfurling.  Yellowing leaves wave in the whistling wind, bidding me farewell.  I leave the forest behind; toss an old token as offering over a waterfall overflowing on octane from the downpours.  And just like that, we’re out of the woods.

            Now, wrapped in the warm luxuries of dry socks and Cabernet, I miss it.  Black flies, blisters and all.  There’s mindlessness to being so mindful of survival.  It’s a revolving door of stressors, but they’re precise, manageable.  Filter water, cook food, create shelter, try to stay dry, moon a boat full of unsuspecting binoculared tourists.  Burst with laughter along with the blisters.  Count my blessings and my toes.  I chose to explore the wild yonder, as well as the darkest depths of my depression.  But by just simply surviving, I’ve found that I can thrive.