Before I stepped foot on the Appalachian Trail, I was inundated with other people’s worries. The fear mongering was endless: “What about the bears? The rattlesnakes?? How will you carry that much water? Are you going to carry a gun?”
And the underlying idea was always: “You’re going to do that by yourself?”
The questions, themselves, seem to imply an answer. You’re not safe. You don’t know what you’re doing. And you shouldn’t do that by yourself — especially not as a solo woman.
My parents consistently suggest that I bring someone along on my adventures. And sometimes I do. They worry that I’ll run into too much trouble. And the comfort of having another set of eyes on the lookout is tangible. I prefer to travel with a trusted companion. But the stars don’t always align. And I’m unwilling to accept other people’s perceptions of my abilities as my own.
Does solo backpacking scare me?
I’d be lying if I said that solo backpacking doesn’t scare me. I’ve been rattled. I’ve run through the darkness in the mountains to put some distance between myself and my fear. Sometimes the threats are very real. I hitchhiked with a man who told me I was too pretty to be hitchhiking. The statement sent shivers up my spine. But nothing unsafe ever happened. And he and I actually became friends.
Over the course of the 2200-mile Appalachian Trail, I saw 8 rattlesnakes. A little creature that previously scared me became almost endearing as I learned about it. I realized that rattlesnakes are actually quite considerate. They warn you about their presence. They’re not really interested in wasting venom on something they can’t eat (you). But they don’t want to be bullied or stepped on. I still jump when I hear a rattle, because it serves as a reminder that you are vulnerable. And they can hurt you.
But maybe there’s more to be learned from rattlesnakes. If they’re being bullied, they’ll bite. And they’ll come at you with enough fight to win. But they’re pretty good at recognizing when an encounter isn’t worth the effort, too.
I remind myself that fear (mostly) comes from a place of uncertainty. If you don’t know how another human or creature might treat you, fear is the natural response. But wiping away ignorance can be a cure for fear, too.
Where’s the beauty in apathy, anyways?
I won’t debate the presence of danger. Living is dangerous. Denver is dangerous. Driving is dangerous. We’re surrounded by things that can harm us all the time. But I wonder if our own fear causes the greatest harm? How many times haven’t you given yourself the permission to do something that scares you?
I’m not suggesting that you should live in a constant state of panic. But what if we broaden our comfort zones little by little? And for God’s sake, even if you’re not ready to be afraid, stop trying to prevent others from walking through the fire.
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