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May 2018

Thoughts, Uncategorized

The 7 words that are killing me

May 24, 2018

Me and my best friend Cathy sat toward the front of a big, dark theater, a box of Lemonheads and gigantic soda between us, and waited impatiently for the previews to end. We’d been begging to do this for weeks. Finally, with our matching New Kids on the Block t-shirts and stirrup pants, we looked on as the scenes unfolded on the giant screen before us, lighting up our tiny, freshly freckled faces. I was 9 years old. The movie was the incomparable, the phenomenal, “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead” starring none other than the angelic Christina Applegate.

Stop me if you’ve heard this profound and thought-provoking plot before. Three siblings – a preppy teen, her stoner brother and their tomboy little sister – were left alone while their mom went to explore the Australian outback, as most single moms do. Whilst she was away, the mother hired a 99-year-old babysitter to look after the children. After she, as the title might suggest, passed away, the siblings did as any teenagers would do; They drastically matured. Kenny, the weed-loving brother learned to cook gourmet meals and keep a neat household, while Swell, the oldest sister, took an entry level job as an assistant at a high-profile fashion apparel company.

With her cigarettes, tight french braids, fire engine red lips, and teen gal insights about uniforms, Swell climbed the ranks in just weeks before it inevitably all went to crap when their mom came home to find a raging fashion show playing out in their backyard. Such silly shenanigans!

This walk down memory lane has a point, I promise, and it is this … 7 words, one line. One line that has followed me for 26 years: “I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

There’s this scene in the movie, after Swell first gets the job with Rose, the Senior Vice President of Operations with shoulder pads you could sleep on, where Rose is taking like 5 minutes to onboard her new hire. As a final directive, she tells Swell, “And one more thing, and this is so important … Whenever we’re not alone or I’m on the phone and I ask you something, no matter what it is, you always say, ‘I’m right on top of that, Rose!’ [in a peppy tone] OK?”

via GIPHY

Every single day, in every situation, I am the Rose and the Swell.

I tell both myself and everyone around me that everything is under control, even when I’ve spent all the hypothetical petty cash and I have to clean the happy fat vats. I do it because it’s too paralyzing to stop and assess how I’m really doing. Do I really want to know how far behind I am? How depleted? How frazzled?

“I’m right on top of that, Rose!” is no different than, “Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming,” or “Smile and wave, boys”. These fake-it-till-ya-make-it phrases are all the soul’s rebuttal to high demand when it can’t take on one more thing, or manage what it’s already carrying, but it feels impossible to admit it.

I recently went through an intense period professionally. And I have three daughters, so basically every day of my existence is stressful at home. (Beautiful, but stressful, yes, we all agree.) The only option was to put my head down and walk forward through the mud. Like a pregnant tortoise, no doubt, but forward ever still.

I recognized this chapter immediately because it’s one I’ve lived through before, many times. I tell myself if I can just keep unloading dishwashers and packing lunches. Keep detangling and putting up ponytails and putting away laundry. Keep adding tasks to the list and taking 10-minute impromptu meetings. Keep answering emails and writing words. Keep on keeping on.

Because when I lift my head, that’s when I notice that my to-list is substantially longer than my to-done list. Actually scrolling through it, I feel like it’s going to grow rows of teeth and swallow me whole. Big tasks, little tasks, follow ups, follow throughs. There for a span of about four weeks I was positively pounded with expectation. And subsequently, all the anxiety.

But did anyone know?

“I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

Of course they didn’t. Because that would require me saying no to something or asking for help or acknowledging I ran out of time. And I don’t run out of time! Pulling back the curtain to show the panic and tears and ugliness we typically reserve for our own self-loathing is just way too logical, too vulnerable, too honest. Screaming “uncle!” is weak in comparison to the denial-drenched alternative “I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

And I guess what I’m asking is why we do it to ourselves. I can’t be the only one who spends her lunch hour picking up the dog’s arthritis medicine, 3 poster boards for Star of the Week and the special non dairy cheese, glancing at the clock every 2 minutes to make sure there’s enough time. There has to be a silent army of us out there rounding up the oddities that make our tribe’s globe keep rotating on its perfect little axis.

And it’s not like I’m on an island. I have a husband. A good one, in fact. With a car and legs and a cell phone and a wallet. One who I could send an S.O.S. to at any time, no judgment. But I rarely do. I have friends. Good ones, in fact. With phones and mini vans and basements and vodka. Ones who I could text an S.O.S. to at any time, no judgement. But I rarely do. I have a family. A good one, in fact. With houses and a hereditary obligation to unconditionally love me, my partner and my offspring no matter what, and to show up every time no questions asked. But I rarely ask them.

It’s just insane, guys.

As women, our generosity muscle is strong. It gets worked. We see a weak moment for someone else and we offer to help before even thinking it through. We’re there to listen, cook, clean, fold, drive, whatever they need. But when we feel ourselves slipping, drowning, grasping, we push it down and we walk through the mud. The house is a mess and your cousins want to come over for dinner and I have a freelance story due and the dog has raging diarrhea? “I’m right on top of that, Rose! Sounds great!” I’m going out of town and got pulled into a last minute executive presentation and my oil needs changed and I’m getting a sinus infection. “I’m right on top of that, Rose! I’ve got it. No problem!”

And the people who really pay are the ones we love the absolute most. Hot off a stressful day I will scream at my girls to just “Go play anywhere but here!” while I burn an average tasting dinner that no one is going to eat anyway. But I’ll smile and eat my shit politely when a lukewarm acquaintance assigns me 50 action items for a charity event I didn’t even volunteer for or a stranger steals my parking spot at the grocery store in a thunderstorm. I don’t know why.

What would happen if I dropped “I’m right on top of that, Rose!” from my vernacular? What if we all did? What if, instead of “Sure,” “No problem,” “Absolutely,” “I’m fine,” “I’m great,” “I can just swing by on my way to …” we started saying things like, “Can you please,” and “I can’t,” and “I need,” and “It can wait,” and “Not today” and asking, “Is this really that important”? It would take time and a lot of reprogramming but it has to be possible. I see others doing it. Not many others, but others.

Let this be my confession:
On most days, I am only, at best, mildly on top of things. Other days I’m buried somewhere underneath. If you see me walking fast, I’m likely running late. If my head is down, I’m probably lost or checking to see what I need to do next. If I’m at the drugstore, shit’s probably going down. If I’m at the grocery, I’m miserable. If I’m exercising, I’m feeling guilty. If I’m driving, I’m listening to an audiobook about how to be a better human. I am a woman with her chin sticking just out of the water and I recognize your chin, too.

via GIPHY

I’m thinking my internal dialogue is as outdated as the hot pink and turquoise referee uniforms in the movie from which it came. I’m working to retire my tired ruminations and responses and downshift into more honesty. We’re always going to be hardwired to gather tasks. It’s our instinct to take inventory of needs and check the temperature of the members of our tribe, and there’s likely no fighting that. But I can certainly tap into my army more. I’ve got some pretty great soldiers among my ranks.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 47-52.9

May 13, 2018

I woke up well rested and plenty warm, my knit hat perched unsecured on top of my head and a slippery pool of drool between my cheek and the polyester padding around me. I could hear a different type of trail animal now, rumblings from our neighbors in Popular Stamp Gap. A few feet away, Just Matt was peeling his generous sleeping bag off his sweaty limbs and coaxing Bambi out of their tent.

I sat up and sluggishly pulled my warm legs from their protective vessel. I wielded them around, sat on top of my husband’s unsuspecting torso and poked my toes around until they connected with my slide-on camping shoes. I wrapped my extra blanket around my body and sat on a log next to our urine extinguished fire as one by one our herd emerged from their structures.

We began going about the business of breakfast. Steam rolled through the plastic lid holes of our camp stove, signaling that coffee was just moments away. We ripped open a 2 serving package of Biscuits and Gravy and dumped a few cups of boiling water in. I cupped my stainless steel mug and let the Trader Joe’s instant java with a whisper of box pinot settle into my nose. As if on cue, the sun announced itself over the mountains on the horizon. The trail was waking up and, on this very special occasion, I was fortunate enough to greet it.

In the distance, clouds were sneaking up behind us as we unknowingly broke camp. After a quick trip to the facilities (I chose the fourth tree from the slope 40 paces off the campsite), it was time to step onto the path for our final hike of the trip.

There are certain sounds – the rebellious rhythmic ding of my steel mug clanging against the carabiner on the strap of my pack, the rubber tips of my hiking poles unearthing stones, the gravel shifting under my dusty boot soles – that soothe me with each stride. I am a one-woman band performing for the hidden creatures and frazzled minds of those in these woods.

You have a lot of thoughts walking alone. Actual, full, real, weird thoughts. And that’s when you realize that’s it’s been a really long time since you last had an actual, full, real thought. All day long, people are talking at you … asking for things, explaining things, working through their own things. Sometimes you’re engaged, often times you’re not, but just as sure as you find silence, you’ll find someone who wants to fill it with noise.

But not out here.

Someone said to us once that they were shocked we don’t all walk together the whole time. At any given point on the hike, we could have as much as a half a mile between us. I like to hang back on the steep climbs and let everyone go ahead of me. On this, our final morning on the AT, I found myself gloriously alone on the mountainside, winding my way around and entertaining all the roaming ruminations that entered my finally rested mind.

This was our fourth day of hiking, and by now my body was starting to keep track. If I took a deep breath, I could feel the strain on my lungs, the tissue bearing tally marks of oxygen sucking exertions and 30-degree mountain air. If I straightened my back, the weight of the pack tugged at my shoulders and down my spine and retold the story of strain from the flat ground the night before. It was all there. Adventure feels different at 33 … 34 … 35.

I passed by large, rolling hills with bare tree trunks layered like bristles in Mother Nature’s hairbrush. I thought about obscure things, like how when you drive by a mountain it looks brown from the road. But when you’re on it, you can see each and every branch. You can see their organic tumor-like growths and unsettled roots. You observe the personalities of each plant, which you would never normally consider.

Even silence has a shelf life, and mine was about to expire. I caught up to the boys. Just Matt and The General were standing around in a clearing spitting water on each other like toddlers. I’ve learned that decades can pass, but boys who grow up TP-ing and shooting each other with foam bullets are always going to revert back to those boys when they get together to play in the woods. It’s an immaturity that transcends the power of time.

About an hour into our 8-mile day, a mist started falling. It felt good at first. Almost pretty; casting gray watercolor hues around the mountain tops. When my sleeves started holding the water, I caved and put on my raincoat and pack cover. We passed an older gentleman drenched in a mix of salty sweat and cleansing rain. “I can’t believe I let my son talk me into this,” he said, to all of us and no one in particular.

We came over a mountain and into a wet Celtic landscape. Mossy rocks layered on top of and propped against each other proved slick and challenging for my amateur agility. Despite the fact it felt like we were seconds away from stitches with every step, the scenery was outstanding. By far my favorite of the trip. Gravy and I were alone through most of this terrain. Honestly, I think he waited for me for fear I wouldn’t make it through on my own. Probably valid.

Around the halfway mark, I started to get hungry. And we all know how things turn once my tummy starts talkin to me. We were all waiting for a final climb, which we were told that morning over breakfast would be followed by a long, long descent. It was hard to tell with the growling stomach and the rain and the emerald dressed boulders, what constituted a “final climb”. All we were doing was climbing. If we could get to the top of Blue Mountain we should find a shelter where we could have lunch and a final reprieve before we headed down toward the truck.

I got snappy as we pulled ourselves up the mountainside. I let my husband pass, for fear he might divorce me over the things I was saying out of hunger. I knew, just a few more steps and I would pull out my lunch, have a Snickers and turn back into the Biscuits he could love.

I saw the roof peaking out as I leaned into my screaming thighs and urged them to carry me just 30 more feet. I set my pack down, pulled out a tortilla and pouch of Justin’s Maple Almond Butter and blacked out from the ecstasy of the sweet, carby snack meeting my mouth. It was so dirty. Just me and all the foods I’d stowed away for this final meal. I was having a food fiesta for one and no one else was invited.

I had five tortillas left in my pack and absolutely no need for them after this little lust fest. So, I turned around to offer my stash. I was joined by Bambi, Gravy, a pair of younger thru hikers and – who else – the couple from Canada we’d been leapfrogging since we got here.

The wife politely indulged in a tortilla while her husband – who couldn’t have gluten – told us all about their adventure. Turns out, he made it to Katahdin in 2004 and they’d just wrapped a 90+ mile trek through Scotland. Unfortunately he’d fallen a few days back and had the scars to show for it. He lifted his glasses to reveal a gash on the side of his nose that began just below his eye. They were making arrangements to get off the trail for the night. As we packed up, the gentleman said they were going to come out every year with the intent of going as far as they could go and just see. I envied them.

For our little crew, it was time to bring this thing home. The General, Just Matt and Captain Cordage, with some good momentum and a desire to dodge my car sickness, had gone ahead. They would go get Tank and the other vehicle and someone would stay back to meet us at Unicoi Gap, our stopping point.

After a few manageable climbs we found ourselves staring down at the start of an infinite descent. For a mile and a half we worked our way through switchbacks and across stones positioned as unstable steps and grunted and groaned and gasped.

“I almost just died!” Bambi said behind me at one point, a pair of flat stones set loose down the sloping mountain beside him, 13 years of joys and regrets flashing before his eyes no doubt.

Most people think, and rightfully so, that a decline beats an incline any day of the week. But in actuality, it presents its own set of spirit breakers. For starters, you can’t look up. There’s no way. The second you take your eyes off the wobbly rocks or shifty dirt, you’re done. So you end up with a sore neck and zero pictures to show for it. Then there’s the pressure. In your toes, in the front pad of your foot, in your ankles and in your knees. It’s like strapping a 6 year old to your back and then trying to walk across a tiere balance beam on your toes. Not great.

Eventually we heard the familiar sound of cars zooming by on the mountain highway. We could see the parking lot at Unicoi Gap, and our three trailmates at Captain Cordage’s truck. We were turning on the final switchback as The General and Just Matt pulled out to go retrieve Tank, completely unaware of our proximity.

We came to the road and crossed over, back toward reality and 20 paces closer to the 9-to-5 hustle. Some locals had a tent set up to host a little trail magic for those passing through. I think once upon a time, trail magic was more the love child of of three way involving necessity, kindness and coincidence. Maybe a thru hiker broke a shoelace and a local just happened to be on their way home and felt inclined to give the troubled backpacker their own laces. Or a couple at a local restaurant picked up the tab for a grubby north bounder to free up some of his dwindling cash. Or a cow farmer let a hiker come in out of a thunderstorm in exchange for help feeding the animals in the morning. You get the idea. It was a meeting of people in an hour of need; one with the means to offer relief and the other in desperate need of it.

Now, while I’m sure these rendezvous with fate still occur, it seems to be more common to come across premeditated magic. We saw a few trucks at these points where the road intersects the blazes set up with coolers full of food and boxes of bandages and trail essentials. It’s refreshing to see goodwill in any form, but as section hikers, we felt a little strange taking advantage of the generosity. We were never more than a dozen miles away from a vehicle, so it felt wrong taking a Pepsi and PopTart out of the hands of someone who was days, possibly weeks away from a night in a real bed. So we simply waved and kept moving.

After we politely passed this latest trail magic tailgate, we made it to Captain Cordage who was waiting with warm orange Gatorades and wet wipes. We threw our packs in the back of his truck and made our way down out of the mountains. Soon the brown peaks were in the the rear view mirror, rather than a stone’s throw from my window. We were heading to Hiawassee, Georgia, to regroup at a local Mexican restaurant. I knew before my brother even walked through the door that he was going to want to drive straight through and be back in Indiana before his head hit the pillow that night.

I settled into a bright orange, somewhat sticky chair in front of a mariachi mural and poured over the menu, rich with pale images of impressive combo platters brimming with beans and rice. I ordered a pint of queso paired with a pollo con fresco la margarita de diarrhea-o de something or other and waited for Just Matt to walk in. Sure enough, he had made the decision, though he amended it by saying, “But we can see how we feel.” We all knew what that meant. Saddle up, partners, we’re riding at sundown.

Within hours, Tank, carrying four grimey, groggy section hikers, was barreling through sleet and snow, somewhere in the south. Around 9:30 that night, we pulled off at a Big Boy in Kentucky. This is one of my brother’s only stipulations for these trips; He demands one Big Boy and one Buddy Boy with a side of onion rings. It’s greasy and it’s tradition.

Things got quieter and the temperatures got colder the further up the map we climbed. Less than an hour from home we pulled into a gas station and everyone slipped on ice as they tried to climb down out of the truck. We weren’t in Georgia anymore.

Sweet JoJo was wide awake and waiting when we walked through the door at 2 a.m. She’d made a fort in the front room so she wouldn’t miss us. The next morning, from the comfort of my couch, displayed via my AppleTV, we scrolled through pictures from our trip and tried to recall overlooks and shelters for Hank’s parents. It’s a sharp shift in both directions; from work to wilderness, then back from seclusion to suburbia. It takes a beat. But as our chicks settled in all around us, bickering and beautiful as ever, Biscuits and Gravy went back to being Mom and Dad. Just like that.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 39.5-44.6

May 3, 2018

I have always gotten car sick. Always. Green-faced, barf-in-a-grocery-bag car sick. I can remember hanging my head out the window on the 4-minute drive from my elementary school to our then-house because I was certain my square pizza was going to come back up. If it’s hot, if it’s going to rain, if it’s going to snow, if I’m in the back seat, if I’m facing backward, you name it, I’ll puke all over it.

So when we started out that Thursday morning at 10am, the six of us, all crammed into Tank, barreling toward Hogpen Gap, I knew my dramamine wasn’t going to be sufficient. I think the people of north Georgia purchased all of the warning signs for a double bend in the road ahead that have ever been made. And I’m pretty sure we passed each and every one of them that morning.

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window as Just Matt called out, in a light, annoying tone, “‘’Nother squiggle sign!” “Op, and another squiggle.” What started as a joke for the men in my company soon soured, as I began whining and snapping in my discomfort. If I had to suffer, they all had to suffer. My nephew, crammed in the middle of the front seat next to me, inched closer to his dad, terrified of what might come erupting out of his ancient aunt.

“Just 21 more minutes,” The General offered from the backseat. How could one road bend so damn much and go on for so damn long? We were working our way around a mountain and, if anyone was keeping score, I assure you, the mountain was winning. The curves were kicking my ass.

After the longest drive of my life, we made it to the parking lot at Hogpen Gap. I barrel rolled out of the front seat, the sky and earth a swirling mass of blues, greens and browns circling my head. I knew I was standing still, but I could have sworn I was swaying like a drunk man on a carnival ride.

Everyone gave their packs a once over before positioning them to carry their full weight for the first time since we’d arrived in Georgia two days ago. My brother drug his from the back of his truck cab and wrestled it onto his shoulders.

One thing you might not know is that the backpacking industry is big business. There are countless accessories and gear options all engineered to be as lightweight and functional as possible. When you have 30-50 pounds pulling on your shoulders, you feel every ounce, and so, those who enjoy a nice mountainside getaway will spend big bucks for featherlight products. Unless, of course, they are built like Shrek and stubborn as Trump’s combover. And that, my friends, is my brother.

In the weeks leading up to our trip, I’d check in with him here and there … “Do you have everything you need?” “Sure,” he’d say. “I just need to run out for a few last-minute things,” he’d say. One of those last-minute items was a properly sized sleeping bag. Turns out, the man-child had been carrying a women’s sleeping bag for the past 2 years. Since he forgot to grab one at the camping store, he made an emergency run to the nearest big box outdoor vendor and purchased a synthetic 8-pound sleeping bag (to compare, mine weighs just under 3 pounds). It was huge and heavy and all wrong. Add to that, he was carrying most of the food and a two-person tent for him and his son, a full water bladder, insulated thermos mug and camping stove.

As he heaved it onto his broad back, the straps slapped in front of him with a thud. An involuntary sound plunged from his mouth. He would never acknowledge how uncomfortable it truly was, but he didn’t need to.

His speed that Thursday would tell the story for him. One step at a time, he lugged his tarp-sized sleeping bag and all his essentials up and down, up and over, up and down. To add to his discomfort, the straw of his water bladder was releasing a steady leak of fluid down onto his chest, making it appear as if he were lactating on one side. By the time we found a small campsite to stop for lunch, just over an hour into our day on the trail, he was already drenched.

The boys were checking scores from the Masters as thru hikers sporadically passed by and I wondered if they even realized the tournament was taking place that weekend. As the day went on we’d leapfrog with different groups of three or four backpackers aspiring to go all the way, chatting about trail names and weather conditions. I placed bets in my head about who would endure and who would throw their boots in the tree, so to speak.

We passed a man and his 6-year-old son taking a break after a semi-brutal climb. The boy was smiling, sitting proudly next to his dad. We’d hear the next day they went well past us and camped on ahead, and I couldn’t help but think of how our girls would do out here. If I would want to bring our girls out here. They say the mountains call them, too, and I just hope that desire stays in their hearts long enough for us to feel confident enough to entertain it.

We only had 6 miles to cover for the day, so we reached our campsite at Poplar Stamp Gap (elevation 2990’) at a decent hour. The General and Captain Cordage had been ahead of us for some time and greeted us with the stark white skin of their bare chests. The General, you must understand, is all about “airing things out”. Clothes, skin, gear … whatever it is, he’s airing it out. Moisture is the enemy of hikers. It means chafing and blisters and other unwanted afflictions.

And so the grown men went about hanging their hammocks and pitching their tents, blinding torsos on display for all humans and wildlife who passed to enjoy. I left my sunglasses on and helped Gravy set up our modest little two-person living quarters.

Our tent isn’t much to look at. It’s incredibly light and easy enough to set up, but certainly leaves something to be desired in the square footage. There is room for two sleeping pads, bumped up next to each other, two sleeping bags on top of the pads and two bodies inside those bags. That’s pretty much it. Boots stay outside, and only my bag of clothes comes in and hangs out on top of my feet. Sometimes it literally feels like Gravy and I are just breathing each other’s air.

We noticed the older gentleman from Canada we’d seen the two days before leaning against a log just outside of our camp area, his wife nowhere in sight. Gravy went over and spoke to him. He was feeling a little depleted from their adventure and we worried about how much further he could go. Eventually, he gathered himself enough to press on, his sweetheart from the north waiting up the trail.

Our suite for the evening came together rather quickly, so, when Gravy went to refill our water bladders, I hit a different bladder. Our bag of wine. The crimson juice filled my stainless steel mug and the aroma of alcoholic grapes rushed to my nostrils. I sipped the warm fermented treat, fantastic even at body temperature.

The small bladder was deceptively generous. Gravy and I each had a few cups and, being dehydrated as I was, it didn’t take long for me to feel loose and tingly. I noticed The General’s backpacking chair, a squatty seat with fabric, a frame and two legs, made for balancing by the fire. I’d been wanting to try it since our mountainside evening last year. Two mugs in, the opportunity was now before me, calling to me like a Sharpie to a toddler.

I held it under me, hovering above the weak frame while Just Matt sat scrolling through the Masters scores on his phone. I committed. Dropped my ass down into the seat just in time to see my camp sandals, feet inside ‘em, come up over my head. I don’t know if I even made a noise, but the zip of my puffy down jacket sliding across the twigs on the ground was enough to steal my brother’s attention.

“Jeeeezzzzuusss,” he said. I heard it in my head before he actually said it. I stayed on my back looking up at the darkening powder blue sky for a handful of seconds. It felt so vast up here. From this angle. My flip and my thoughts finally caught up to each other and I started laughing hysterically. What it must have looked like from a sober side view …

Gravy, Bambi and The General came back and we started preparing our dehydrated dinners. Spicy chicken from Hawk Vittles for us, Lasagna for Just Matt and Bambi, homemade chicken tacos for the General and a vegan meal for the Captain.

“We are going to eat every single thing in this bag,” Just Matt said to Bambi, showing no sign of sarcasm. “I’m not carrying all this out of here tomorrow. Here, have another Snickers.” He tossed the brown wrapper to his son.

It was fun for me to watch my big brother and his “little” boy out here. To be a fly on my sibling’s shoulder as his kid pushed himself and found his way was kind of cool. I’ve shared a birthday with this young gentleman for 13 years now, but this was the year he finally surpassed me in height. This was the year he stopped acting shy. This was the year he came out to the woods and killed it, like a teenager on the brink of independence. Bittersweet for sure.

Around 9 o’clock I peed off the trail and the boys peed all over the fire. As soon as I got settled into my sleep bag I talked myself into going No. 1 one more time, just to be sure. In order to get out of our tiny tent I actually had to sit on my husband’s stomach, get my feet out and then maneuver my torso through the door. He grunted underneath me as I searched for my camp sandals in the moonlight.

Empty and slightly buzzed, I got back into my grape-colored Kelty and closed my eyes. I’d opted to carry the weight of both an extra blanket and an inflatable pillow this trip. Totally worth it. I let out a sigh of submission and closed my eyes. Just then, the sounds of wild yips and howls echoed somewhere in the distance. Coyotes, Gravy confirmed. They didn’t sound that far away.

“Um … are we OK here?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. Coyotes don’t want anything to do with people,” he said. I couldn’t see his face.
“Really?”
“Yeah, babe. Just go to sleep.”

And I did. I fell asleep to the sounds of a wild pack of dogs having a moonlight rave just a strong man’s stone’s throw away. At some point in the night I awoke to owls, hooting to each other from branches all around us. I pictured their cartoon-like faces conversing despite their unwanted guests.

The next morning Gravy would tell me the coyotes were “eery” and actually kind of freaked him out. My brother didn’t hear a thing. He was sound asleep under his eight-pound sleeping bag. Not a care in the world.