Wind beat against my 4x4 capable Toyota in the middle of the night while I lay snuggled in the back on a thin inflatable pad. The valley likely only saw a light drizzle from this passing storm. But the hills where I camped were pounded by 15-20 mph gusts and sideways rain. I awoke intermittently to the rocking motion of my truck caused by the storm. Maybe sleeping in my vehicle beside a cliff wasn’t the best idea.
Still, this is my favorite spot. At less than an hour away from my house in Medford, this campsite was the closest, and most affordable, respite with a view. Hunters use these turn-offs for their convenience. The rock ring of the campfire had to be erected from the mess other campers, and windstorms apparently, left behind. I came here to get away, take nature photos, maybe mushroom hunt with my new waterproof field guide, and remind myself what it’s like to survive by my wits. If nothing else, I came for a full 24 hours without my kids. Most people probably wouldn’t consider sleeping a night in the forest high on their list of dream vacations. I, however, find the experience to be most rewarding.
Medical frustrations had me angry and depressed, aching for a chance to prove I am still a young, capable woman, despite what fate predicts about my degenerative spinal disorder. I needed a distraction from the phone calls, radiographic scans, report collecting, and responsibility of being my own advocate in the health-care system. So away I went, packing only an extra blanket -- because I keep most amenities and necessary supplies stocked in my truck for such spontaneous occasions -- into the forest to explore and presumably make it out alive.
I learned from an unfortunate backpacking experience along the Rogue River Trail some years ago that the human body can withstand days without food, even while damp and exhausted. Carrying a 40 pound pack on an injured back 25 miles in new hiking shoes, and enduring long dark nights in a wet hammock was more survival than anyone needs. One day and night in my vehicle wouldn’t kill me.
Every tributary off the main forest access road was game. I wanted to know where each one led, how far they would go, what I might see along the way, and how lost I could get exploring them. My trusty atlas had never failed me before this trip. I entered territory those tiny little squiggles on the map don’t do justice. Never before had I been so disoriented.
At one point I reached a six-way intersection of dirt and gravel roads absent any signs as to which were thoroughfares, and which were dead-ends. One went downhill, one went up, and three others were relatively flat with the hilly landscape. Only by twisting my map upside-down and around (and waiting for someone else to pop out of an entrance) did I get my bearings. I could have easily been lost down those roads for hours. The number of unidentified intersections in a row is what threw me off. While I’m exploring one turn, I come upon another. You know how in labyrinths you’re supposed to keep turning the same direction until you’ve mapped a route in your head? Yeah, process of elimination doesn’t work when every road intersects with another.
At a height exceeding 5,000 feet, where the narrow, rocky road overlooked low-lying clouds, I had to stop and panic. As much as I enjoyed the adrenaline rush of venturing into new territory, this road seemed to be heading straight into the sky itself. According to the map, one of these paths would connect to a main road, and trim an otherwise longer journey by half the time and gas it would take to backtrack. I snapped a picture and rallied myself to enter the vortex ahead me.
The road ended, as all the other options had, in a makeshift campsite near the peak, I decided I had enough for today. I wanted to get down. I snapped a couple landscape shots, and retraced my steps back the way I came.
Every couple hours, I would exit my vehicle and walk around to take photos and stretch me legs. I boiled water for instant coffee on the side of a service road using a six-inch emergency stove. Shielding the fire starter from the rain with my body eventually yielded me a hot drink to thaw the damp chill from my bones.
There’s something about being alone in the forest that makes any sense of vulnerability you feel in civilization seem trivial. There are no safe zones. There is no one to rescue you. Your cell phone won’t have reception to call for help. You must be independent, and confident you can save yourself from any situation you end up in. All it takes is one missed spin of my tire, or one mudslide, one mistake, and I could fall into a ravine. What if I have a heart-attack? No one would be there to resuscitate me.
It’s a risk. I know that all too well every time I go out there. And yet I keep going out there. Something in the trees invites me. When I’m out there I’m in communion with nature. A grand spirit flows through me and cautions me not to get too arrogant in my avoidance of danger. It is a humbling experience, to say the least. Though I did not find the wild edibles I came out to forage for, I certainly found something else: humility, wonder, and the opportunity to be surprised by what the forest had to offer me on this occasion.
Under the clear sky that night, I saw two uniquely timed shooting stars. I danced awkwardly around my personal campfire by the cliff. I sang and yelled and cried at the universe for things in my life I had yet to understand. I let all my burdens go for one beautiful moment, and simply existed, as humans always strive to: freely.
Yes, there were moments of fear. Any animal, human, or other could be lurking in the darkness that surrounded me. I told myself logically that I would hear any trespassers this high up, but something about seeing across the mountaintops both amplifies and drowns sound. I stayed near my fire during the night, and my vehicle during the day, clinging to the familiar as a source of comfort. Being alone in the forest reminded me what I most treasure: my family, my stories, and my home. There is no more raw a test of inner strength, than to be stripped of your humanity, only to find you’re more human without it.
You can follow my Instagram feed @dailydoseoforest for more forest pics from my random adventures, uploaded 3x/week.
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