Where the wild things are

Last night I had an interesting discussion with a friend who was disconcerted by my recent post about Into the Wild. He was distressed that I said I could live without people. I'll point out that I said I could do so for a time. I certainly am not looking to become a hermit! I do enjoy entire weekends to myself sometimes, and I can imagine spending at least a couple of months alone. (A friend of mine did this a few years ago—driving to Alaska and back for a summer—and he did just fine with it.) But I would have all kinds of requirements for my lengthy-time-alone to make it enjoyable; for starters, I'd have to be in a beautiful natural setting. And I'd have to have some books around, and a computer or notebook so I could do some writing, and ideally I'd have some film and my camera (because I like to create visual poetry too). And let's just be clear on one other front: I'd need to have four walls and a door with me in my wilderness. I'm not proposing living in any magic bus like Chris did. I like to take a shower every day. I like to cook my food on a full-fledged stove, after I've taken it out of the fridge and chopped it up with a real knife (i.e. not a machete). I don't have anything against camping, but it's not something I'm looking to do with my life. Plus, have you ever spent a night alone outside? It can be terrifying!

Which brings me back to my last thought about that film. I was struck throughout the movie by the lack of fear Chris showed about being in the wilderness. I wondered if he really didn't have any (I've never been a cavalier young guy, after all, so what do I know?), or if Penn, perhaps being more of a city person, didn't think to include it. If you've never been in the woods at night (or watched Lost), you might not think of it. But I've spent a night alone away from anything, and I sure did not enjoy it once the sun went down.

This was in Maine. The month was March; dark fell by 6 pm. Thankfully I had a flashlight and a book (if my memory is accurate, it was Camus' The Stranger, in French). I squirmed deep into my sleeping bag, propped the book open and the light against it, and tried to ignore the rustling sounds in the woods around me. Within an hour, my eyes hurt from reading with so little light, so I closed the book and attempted sleep.

As my eyes shut, my ears opened.

I lay as still as I could and tried to block out the sounds. I thought if I envisioned everything around me, it would calm me down, so I re-built the landscape. A tree stood about four feet from me. Others were scattered around it at similar distances. The hill began to slope to my left maybe 30 feet from me, and before me, the land stretched 50 or 100 yards before dropping off into water. I tried not to think about what lay behind me, for it was only woods, dense and dark.

I could see everything in my immediate vacinity. Except the thing making so much noise. I knew it was something hungry, something going after my food. I had strung the bag as high as I could, but a bear could reach it, I knew. I listened to it knocking the branches around, and I felt a paralyzing fear in my body. I don't think I could have moved if the bear had tried to sit on me (or worse).

But somehow, it all stopped. Whether I fell asleep or the creature left, I'm not sure, but in the morning, I awoke all in one piece. My food was gone—the twine had been gnawed through, the bagels and nuts swallowed, except for a few tidbits that spotted the ground. Yet there was no sign of a large animal. The leaves all lay in place; the thundering attacker I had pictured was most likely a raccoon with sharp teeth and quick hands. I laughed at myself, thinking how incredibly sound amplifies in the dark. I laughed at myself, but I still looked in every direction, up trees and over the hillside, before starting the walk back home.