First Time Solo
Just run, see what happens
I’m fortunate enough to now live a mere 45 minutes drive from one of the most beautiful mountain ranges on the planet. Another half hour or so will get me to Banff and it’s surrounding towns, nestled nicely into the foggy forested valleys.
We grew up on the prairies and while we camped, it was always at great expense in both time and money to get anywhere that would actually be described as “forest” — so while we did our best, it is truly remarkable for me, a young guy going to school and living on his own for the first time, to have that sudden freedom; that ability to drive and just be there.
My tent arrived in July or August sometime, which meant I had only slept in it a few times as the summer waned. I had my old tent, of course, but this was my first foray into true backpacking, into actually carrying myself into the woods somewhere rather than being a few meters from the back hatch of my car.
It was a spur of the moment decision, a september friday afternoon that was still bright and sunny. I was driving home from work and had a full tank of gas, a good song playing and an endless road in front of me. It was too tempting. I ducked home and stuffed my pack, hastily texting friends of my position in the event I never came back. Tried to convince them to come, but it was too little notice and I was committed in my head at this point. So, I’d do it alone.
There’s a secluded equestrian ranch that we've backpacked in before. I don’t know if it’s still functional because I've never once seen horses on those trails. It’s not full mountains in that area, just rolling foothills with nice trees and the occasional expanse of field. Some cattle, lots of dirt roads that probably exist for five trucks a year… and me. I drove as far as I could and parked, opening my door into a mild breeze and the lovely smell of fresh forest air. It was completely still out. The sun had a few hours left.
Grabbing my things and stowing my phone in the glovebox (there was no service anyway) I left my car alone on the side of the empty road and walked forward into a clearing. I didn’t have a plan past this point in the journey.
As it turns out, this area was nearly impossible to camp in. There are nice clearings and then there are fire break clearings — this being the latter. If you’ve never been to one before, they cut these wide swathes in the forest to prevent fires from spreading, but what’s left in the grass in between are stumps too close together to pitch even a smaller tent like mine. It’s clear visually, but almost useless for me. I headed for the treeline. The sun is starting to go down over the mountains in the distance.
The treeline is no better. Too dense, and sharp rocks everywhere else. I didn’t own a hammock at this point, but it would have been a good option to hover above the underbrush. I didn’t want to wander too far from my car on my first night out, so I returned through the clearing, making a lazy loop if seen from the sky. There was a stream to the north, so I pushed into the opposite treeline towards it. The sun continues to redden. I come across a steep bank with fallen logs from the huge flood months before and see a nice, smooth island in the stream. Being the only flat thing I’ve seen all evening, I decide to try it and made my way around the bankment.
Upon closer inspection the flatness was an illusion, there was a grey sandy beach intermixed with smooth rocks ranging in size from grapefruit to volleyball. No Wilson to keep company on my island, though. I learned, incidentally, that the sand wasn’t very deep when I tried to peg my tent down. My nearly brand new stakes now have scars in the anodized blue.
The benefit to the river was twofold: there weren't any trees on my island, which meant no twigs to snap in the night and squirrels to turn into bears and serial killers stalking my tent, but also that the water itself drowns out nearly everything, not only in noise but also in the earth. You can feel the movement of the water reverberate through your chest as you lay down, even with the isolation of the Thermarest pad. Entirely by accident that night was a big, bright full moon and so as the sun went down it didn't really get any darker than that dusky blue glow through my tent walls. It was a weird state, like how I imagine sensory deprivation tanks work. The white noise from the water and the hours of identical light sort of create a bubble outside of time for you. I didn't have a watch or my phone, so I just laid there and enjoyed that moment, regardless of when it was. I suspect around 8 pm, but I woke again sometime in the night — 2 am, perhaps — and it was the exact same, so it’s hard to tell. It was definitely colder out, and I woke up to frost around the edges of my tent. I’m a warm sleeper, but that Thermarest isn't very insulated; the cold sand just sucks up everything you've got.
In any event, for my first night alone I didn't end up nearly as afraid as I thought. In fact, I don’t think I was really afraid at all other than the slight “Where am I going to even put up my tent before nightfall” worry, but that itself wasn't bad given how ultimately close I was to my car and an easy 35 minute drive home.
The sun rose and the glow filled my tent, a feeling which might be one of my absolute favorites in the world, and I packed up in the twilight. I’m not sure why so early, but I drove home east into the sunrise. One of my second favorite feelings is that of dirt roads and trees and sunlight flickering across your car, across the dusty dashboard and you. Dark light dark light dark light as you cruise through the shallow curves, a flock of birds rises out of the ditch beside you. Maybe I was born a rally driver and just never got into it professionally, but those roads call to me. Those moments are mine alone. And I was alone! I had survived my first night as such, and I was driving to a glorious hot shower.
I stopped next to a pond. There were dew covered bullrushes and some geese lounging. I ate a small apple pastry sitting in the hatch of my car and realized I might have forgotten supper the night before. Either I was very hungry or it was very delicious — possibly both. The sun was up now and growing warmer every minute. I sat with my eyes closed, basking. I continued my drive home.
As it turns out, the silty sand stuck everywhere. My tent and backpack, to this day, still spit it out of cracks every so often. I pitched the tent again in my backyard and tried to get it all out with little luck. I showered with it sans pole, hand washing the silnylon and noseeum. Only a bit better. I learned my lesson about camping on beaches, but that’s a pretty good problem to have for a first solo trip into the wilds.
