Alone in the Woods
There’s always that moment of no return: the instant you are forced to admit that whatever foolhardy plan you’ve been batting around, there’s no longer any option to back out.
For me, that moment occurred at the bottom of the trail sloping down from the parking lot at North Carolina’s Panthertown Valley, an overnight pack strapped to my back and a pine-shaded camping spot in the crosshairs. The sun was sinking toward evening, the birds were singing through thick August leaves, and my hiking companions were in their car, heading to their home 50 miles away.
I was well aware that backcountry camping is firmly on the list of Things Females Should Not Do Alone—a list I hate with a passion, by the way. But this idea been rankling itself in my brain for days, refusing to leave. So here I was.
The plan had been much more sensible, in the beginning. My two friends and I would head up to Panthertown together and spend the day hiking its spiderweb of trails to explore the creeks, waterfalls, mountains, and surprisingly sandy creek-side beaches. Then we’d pitch our tents and spend the night in the woods.
The hiking part of the day had passed in all the perfection of late summer high in the mountains—not too hot, not too cold, following routes featuring sheer rock faces and hidden alcoves along fresh mountain streams. Two happy dogs ran giddily up the hills and splashed in the water. A violent cloudburst soon gave way to sunny skies, drying everything out as quickly as it had gotten soaked.
But all that was set against my friends’ announcement the day before that a scheduling conflict meant they wouldn’t be able to stay the night after all. I could feel my pile of camping equipment sink in disappointment when the news came. I felt the same way, and an idea crept into my head—why not camp solo? My heart had been so set on this camping trip and the prospect of waking up in a song-filled forest.
Part of me knew there’d be temptation to chicken out, though, so I left the question open-ended. I drove separately from my friends and left my overnight gear in the car. I juggled the decision all day, tracking changes in the weather and in my motivation. As our hike concluded, I found myself running out of excuses. The sky was clear, the campsite I’d been eyeing since morning remained unclaimed, and the fact that a group of acquaintances happened to camp just down the trail made the solo aspect seem less risky.
Still, that voice in the back of my head kept repeating with each step down the trail: You can still turn back, you can still turn back, you can still turn back. I ignored it and kept walking, though not without wondering if I’d regret the choice come morning.
When I reached the campsite and began to perform all those familiar evening tasks—hanging a bear bag, setting up a tent, boiling water—a funny thing happened. I calmed down. The light filtered verdant through the leaves of the trees and onto the ferns below. Closer to my tent, sky-high pine trees threw shadows on the red-needled carpet.
This was nothing strange and new, I realized. This was just another adventure within the awe-inspiring beauty of creation.
Eventually, all the chores were done, the light gone. I crawled into my sleeping bag, shortly followed by my comfort-loving dog, Arti. The night sounds melded together outside. Distant thunder grumbled, cicadas competed with—and beat out—the last of the crickets. Sporadic drops of water—holdovers from the afternoon rain—hit my tent from the trees above. Arti heaved gusty sighs, so very tired.
I got out my journal and scribbled some thoughts about fear and adventure, beauty and God, filling nine pages before my thoughts ran out and sleep demanded my full attention.
I’d be lying if I said it was a peaceful night, that the dark hours passed free of fear or wakefulness. Arti and I took turns startling, she occasionally waking to bark at (seemingly) nothing, and I jerking out of sleep periodically to hone in on a noise that my sleep-drugged self was sure must be a bear.
But the sun rose, as it tends to do, and we woke to yet another beautiful day, a camp untouched by any marauding wildlife, and a clear sense of accomplishment.
The last of those led me to answer my journaled question of the night before: Why do I insist on pushing myself this way, pursuing the harder uncertainties rather than the easy, comfortable things?
By morning, I knew the answer. I do it because staying home doesn’t let you watch the woods wake up, the fog burn off, and the confidence of competence surge your soul. Confidence is only semi-perishable, and I knew I’d need this batch in the near future, to push me on to the next adventure. And who knows what that might be?
About the author: Waynesville reporter Holly Kays is a forester’s daughter who is happy to live in the land of many trees.
Discover Panthertown Valley
Panthertown Valley includes 6,295 acres of protected, biologically diverse land in the Nantahala National Forest, near Cashiers, North Carolina.
Encompassing the headwaters of the Tuckasegee and Little Tennessee rivers, it features waterfalls, trout streams, breathtaking views, geologic formations, and a plethora of plant and animal life. The area includes 30 miles of backcountry hiking trails, with mountain biking and horseback riding also allowed in some areas. panthertown.org.