Form I: Sound


“You’ve got an hour, tops,” says my old man, holding four fingers, equally spaced, up to the horizon, like Bear Grylls on TV. I check my phone for the actual sunset time.

“I’ve got all my stuff together, let’s enjoy another couple minutes of this,” I reply.

We sit for a few minutes. The sky is the color of a bruise and the texture of a crashing wave, viewed from below. The orange, declining sun dominates a window in the clouds; it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The orange fades to a dull pink and I’ve had my fill, so I head back up to the house, pouring my glass of water in the grass on the way up.

The house is dim, everyone is still gathered outside, pining over the wild sky. I hurry down the stairs into the basement, aware of my timeline, pulling my shirt off on the way down. Pants are off next, quickly swapped for thermal leggings and khakis. Upper layers and shell are on in a tick, and I check my pockets for knife, matches, multitool, bug spray, granola bars, and cell phone. Eighty percent battery should do the trick.

“I’m headed out just now!” I holler as I glide back up to the main floor.

“Should I be worried about you?” calls mother from the kitchen.

“Nope!” I chime. No sooner and I’m out the front door. My pack, ready to go, rests on the rocking chair just outside. I pause on the porch. “First night alone,” I whisper to myself.

The ground lets out a crunch, crunch as I trot up the gravel driveway. I reach Daniels Point drive and hang a left. Halfway to my next turn, I recognize a red-shouldered hawk a hundred yards up the road. It proudly stands over a wriggling snake it’s just snatched. It feels like a good omen. The clouds don’t look so full of rain, either. I soon reach my desired entry point and plunge into the brush.

The owner of the hundred-acre-wood I’ve chosen to call mine for the night probably wouldn’t be so friendly if they found me, so I tread quietly. It’s not dark yet, but the crickets have started their nightly recital early. A cedar grove appears and I decide it’ll do perfectly well. Me and my bag hit the earth. It feels good to sit. I wonder what board game the family is playing tonight. Bad news. No time for them. I reach over and yank the ropes and hammock out from my bag to begin setup.

“The rabbit comes out the hole, around the tree and back in the hole...” I still walk myself through every knot. Four bowlines later and the hammock is up. “In record time,” I say to myself, climbing down from a thick cedar. The clouds have rolled away now, my fire pit is dug and there’s still enough light to try my luck. Pulling my twenty-two from the side of my bag, I decide to find some dinner.

Form II: Safe


With almost an hour elapsed, no rabbits bagged and a pair of freezing, wet feet, I head back to my camp in the pitch black. Swamps are supposed to be warm and mushy, not sloppy cold. That was absolutely an hour wasted.

Night has arrived.

S***, terror kicks in, I’m alone, as if I just realized. A pause. I look up. As fate would have it, herons (the ugliest, loudest bird of the crane family) have made their roost in the sycamore neighborhood right next to my cedar grove. So this is where they roost, I think, remembering that I can usually hear them back at the house, which is miles from where they nest. The next two hours will be turf wars.

I fumble through the dark with my phone flashlight (how could I forget a freaking flashlight?) looking for kindling. I’m suddenly thankful I brought a hatchet and gathered fuel while it was light. I’m suddenly thankful for a lot of things. Like a house.

I’d wandered from my camp circle a fair way and make a beeline back, phone/flashlight in mouth, once I have an armful of kindling, tearing off cedar bark on the way. I plop down, fumbling with the cedar bark, grinding it between my palms into fibers. I shape it into a basket and put a few lit matches underneath it. “Eff it!” I yell: it catches quicker than I thought, bursting into a fireball in my hand. It drops between my legs as I jerk my hand out from under it. It burns out in a hot second. How predictable. I want to scream. Impatience pushes me to resort to leaves. I put the still-mostly-wet leaves under the A-frame and give it light. Moments later, my camp is a cloud of oily, wet smoke. “At least I won’t have any coyotes wander through,” I mutter, perpetually reassuring myself.

The smoker transforms into a fire. Thank God. The cold is starting to bite a little, so I put more dry fuel in the blaze. Everything is perfectly still now. I pull out my leather-bound journal.


April 29, 2014

I’m observing a new side of the woods. There are nighttime cycles that I haven’t gotten to experience. During the day, fish feed in the morning, compete for mates and sleep in the afternoon and feed some more at night. The sun rotates. The herons fish in the morning, collect bedding for their nest, nap, look for a mate, fish some more in the evening, then disappear for the night. These are observable cycles.

Rarely do I get to observe the nighttime cycles. Just like the day, there are phases, the modulation of the crickets, then the bullfrogs, herons and geese off in the distance (I’m not in the distance) then owls. Now, a whole new iteration is unfolding.

Some creatures of the day don’t come out at night. In the same way, some creatures of the night don’t come out during the day. They’re waking now. It’s presently 12:30, and the crickets have stopped. The herons have shut up. I’m not as relieved as I thought I would be. Silence. These are the scary hours.

At least the stars are beautiful.


I close my journal. I’ve adjusted to the low light, the apertures of my eyes are wide open; I can see everything around me. The forest floor is like the surface of the moon. A fox yells in the distance, I don’t mind the company. The fire is low now. The sensation is primal.

I feel so sharp in this moment, so safe. Night arrived, fear with it, but as soon as my hand brought firelight to the woods, an ancient feeling of security came to rest on me. It’s a paradox truly, but I know that I can hold my own: I’m not sheltered, but I am safe. It feels like belonging.