BY LANIE ADDISON
We decided rustic camping would be the best way to spend our first overnight outside of the house. “You can’t catch Covid in the forest”, we convinced ourselves. Like many, the pandemic clobbered us with fear and kept us hostage in our own home for a total of 3 seasons. By the time autumn had rolled around, we were desperate to break out and find refuge under the majestic pines and a blanket of stars.
As newbies on the trail, we huffed, grunted and stomped our way through 6 miles of dense greenery. These backpacks were heavy but it was worth it because we had ALL the gear. We’d spent the previous 7 months devouring hiking documentaries and backpacking magazines just to figure out what to bring. We were armed with everything, including a fresh batch of special cookies made by Mary Jane, a mystical baker.
Finally, after a grueling hike, we arrived at rustic campsite #9. Damp and hungry, we began to unpack the food and spread it out onto the weathered picnic table. We quickly spotted the ziplock bag containing those brilliant baked goods and sent them down the hatch. After a snack and a quick survey of the scene, we began to set up camp. The set up went smoothly and it was time to scour the woodland floors for firewood as dusk was beginning to creep up on us. As a matter of fact, it was about that time that MJ’s baked goods started to do some creeping of their own.
The campfire glow accentuated his masculine features which were now accompanied by restless movements: leg shaking, rocking and pacing in circles. I now know those were feeble attempts to try and secure his fleeting sanity. Soon the pacing subsided and diabolical laughter with a side of hair gripping mania entered the stage. I watched my partner in crime unravel.
“Look at that guy in the red shirt!”
“He’s going to try and kill us!”
“He’s evil.”
“Can’t you see his face?”
“He’s a fucking monster!!!”
“We have to get out of here!!”
With a background in mental health, I understood what was happening and MJ’s baked goods had my poor partner on one hell of a magic carpet ride. Unfortunately, I wasn’t much help as I tried to manage my own buzz. As the night rolled on, his bizarre and high pitched prophecies of the red shirt killer led The Law straight to our campfire.
“Everything okay over here?”, the young officer inquired as he gently placed his hand on his gun holster. Clearly it was a trick question because he knew damn well things weren’t okay. I wasn’t amused, but the mere presence of these officers seemed to calm down my wannabe Grizzly Adams companion. The baby faced officer asked, “Sir, are you on any mushrooms or have you had any alcohol this evening?” He answered honestly, “No”. The officer announced, “You can’t stay here tonight. You’ll either have to come with us or take a ride in the ambulance at the top of the hill”. My partner was confused and after about 10 minutes of trying to decode what the officers were saying to him, I took it upon myself to translate. “Babe, you either go to jail or to the hospital. Those are your two options. Choose hospital”, I pleaded. My bearded companion looked both disappointed and defeated as we made our way up the dark hill with nothing but the officer’s flashlight to guide us.
I watched the EMS transport pull away and realized my own buzz had worn off. I worried for my partner and hoped he would find his way back down to earth after MJ loosened her grip. I headed down the hill back to our camp where I was hit with the realization that not only was I sober but I was alone. There was no way out. I did the math. The odds of me hiking 6 miles out of the woods, in the pitch dark, with 80 pounds of gear on my 125 pound frame wasn’t going to happen. I started to wrap my head around the fact that I was stranded in the woods, vulnerable and alone. Fuck.
Sometimes a wild imagination can be a great asset but in this instance, it was NOT. My mind created a thousand scenarios about how my demise would occur in the woods that night. Would I be attacked by a pack of coyotes, ravaged by a black bear or fall victim to the killer in the red shirt that my partner swore was running about our campsite? The possibilities were endless.
When I’m not playing the role of an amateur backpacker, I’m usually teaching others about mindfulness and how to engage all five senses to manage anxiety. Let’s just say my 5 senses were definitely engaged but not in a calming, zen kind of way.
What’s that sound?
Is the campfire still burning?
It smells like it’s still burning.
Did I just see a shadow?
Is it an animal or human?
Oh God, did someone just touch the tent?
I feel like I have to pee. Shit.
This is Hell.
Fuck.This.
These thoughts consumed me most of the evening. Finally, somewhere in between an Our Father and a Hail Mary. I drifted off to sleep.
You know you are sleep deprived when you wake up feeling hungover and fog headed but you’ve had nothing to drink the night before. That was the state I was in that following morning. Miserable, worried and exhausted. With the light of day seeping through the tent, I knew it was safe to come out. I sat on the picnic table in a state of complete overwhelm as I tried to problem solve how to pack up this camp and get ALL this gear to the car. The math equation I came up with the previous night hadn’t changed much. So, I called the park office and asked for an escort out. They obliged even though it was against the policy to give someone a ride in the midst of a pandemic. I’m pretty sure the guy on the phone felt sorry for me when I told him of the unfortunate circumstances. He said he’d pick me up within the hour if I wore a face mask. I was to meet him at the top of the hill (aka: the emergency exit and the last place I saw my better half).
I think it was only 8 miles or so back to the lot where my car was parked but the drive felt like an eternity. I had my mask on and window rolled down to create a sense of safety for both of us. This angel of a DNR officer was so kind. On the ride, we talked about the pandemic and he told me about his recent recovery from heart surgery. I knew he was risking his life to help me out and I was overcome with gratitude. As we pulled into the parking lot, I directed him to my car. He dropped me off, I thanked him once more and he pulled away. Alone again. Fuck.
On my way to the hospital, I try to make sense of what happened the night before.
God, I hope he’s okay. What if he’s not?
How could a sweet, chocolate chipped, baked good do that kind of thing to a person? Russian roulette meets chocolate chip cookies.
Mary Jane sucks at math.
All parts were NOT created equal.
Maybe our first overnight since lockdown shouldn’t have been so remote.
Maybe we left the container of our four walls too soon.
I want to go home.
Walking into the hospital, I felt like Gwyneth Paltrow in the movie Contagion. Everyone was in blue, paper masks and I’m stopped by a nurse at the entrance who pointed a thermometer aggressively at my third eye. I’m once again reminded that everything is so upside down right now. I scooped up my recovered partner, threw him in the car and we busted out of town. We talk about how we tried to have a normal experience in the midst of all of this chaos but nothing is normal anymore. Not even the cookies. I was disturbed by this revelation as we made the drive back home and processed the strange experience together.
Several months have passed since that wild wilderness adventure and we’ve decided to stick with Betty Crocker’s recipes for the time being. MJ, got us into a lot of trouble and I can’t forgive her just yet. Maybe someday we’ll reconcile but my partner hopes to never see that evil character in the red shirt again. As for now, we’re just riding out this pandemic one wave at a time. As for the wooded acres, we’re ready for a do-over and would definitely try our luck at another rustic hike in (sans baked goods). Lord knows, we’ve got ALL the gear.
