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Solo Camping: Am I Afraid of the Dark?


    I've been doing a lot of solo camping lately and it gave me cause to consider something that I haven't thought about seriously since I was eight: fear of the dark. In my normal daily life, fear of the dark seems almost laughable. I live in a house where I am constantly surrounded by electric lights that I can turn on or off with the flick of a switch. Darkness is simply a condition I choose to allow when I turn off the lights and go to sleep--nothing more. It seemed absurd to be afraid of something that I myself controlled. So you can understand how I assumed that fear of the dark is something that only exists in the realm of childhood. But then I went camping alone and I realized two things. First, that I do still feel afraid of the dark sometimes, and secondly, that that's not always a bad thing. 
Car camping in an old-growth forest
    You see, the kind of dark I experienced while camping is different than the kind of dark I experience on a daily basis. Wrapped in my sleeping bag, surrounded by woods for miles in the deepening night, I realized that the thing I called dark when I turned off the lights in my house isn't actually dark at all. It's more like a knockoff imitation of the actual dark that falls in the woods on a moonless night. This kind of dark feels different. It's big, and echoey, and unfamiliar. It isn't the absence of light, but the presence of dark. It was in this big darkness that I started to wonder for the first time in years, am I afraid of the dark?
    I think most campers can remember at least one night where they had a similar experience with the darkness. Your mind starts running through all the ways you might possibly be in mortal peril, most of which wouldn't hold water in the light of day. I might get struck by lightening, or eaten by a mountain lion, or murdered (ostensibly by someone who hiked 5 miles up a mountain specifically to my campsite), or maybe there will be a flash flood that washes me away...you get the point. It is a singularly vulnerable feeling that you get when attempting to sleep in the woods while afraid of the dark. For me, cocooned in my hammock, I felt like a squishy, warm, helpless blob of human wrapped up like a burrito for the first hungry wolf that comes my way. 
    The more nights I spent outside, though, the more difficult it became to ignore the evidence around me that these fears are unfounded. According to my subconscious, one night without catastrophe is a lucky break. Two nights means I'm probably just really good at avoiding mortal peril. But three nights is a pattern that even my subconscious can't ignore. Eventually, I started to entertain the idea that nature isn't intrinsically scary or dangerous, but that it's actually the thoughts inside my own head that I'm afraid of. I began to realize that the dark itself wasn't actually threatening me. It was just there, providing a vacuum for my own unresolved insecurities to come to the surface. 
    This is when my relationship with the dark really started to change. I started to look at each night as
AT marker at dusk
an opportunity to see what interesting thoughts and feelings came out of my own head, and as I did this they became easier and easier to let go of. I began to savor the night as a time for feeling, reflection, and stillness. I appreciated the dark for causing me to slow down and explore a part of my mind that I might otherwise forget or ignore. The night sounds of rustling leaves, whirring bugs, and even an occasional howl from some unknown canine became interesting and welcome additions to my night life rather than imminent threats. I found that in the dark, both my inner and outer world were suffused with a sense of mystery and awe that I rarely encounter during the day. 
    I'm not going to say that I am totally immune to fear of the dark now. But the way I see the dark has changed. Nowadays, on those occasions when I start to feel nervous around twilight, I welcome it. The dark asks me to pay attention to whatever is in my mind. If that feels scary, it's because sometimes scary things pop into people's minds. Ultimately, though, the dark is a gift that allows me to confront those spooky thoughts so I don't have to unwittingly carry them around all day. What's more, it is infinitely worth it to confront my fear of the dark so that I can appreciate all the joys of a night out in the woods- feeling the air turn cool and soft, seeing the nighttime forest wake up around me with fireflies and cicadas, and watching stars pop into a fading sky. The more I let go of my fears, the more I am able to see that the world is an interesting, beautiful, and often friendly but at least awe inspiring place to live. 

Comments

  1. Manahari, Nepal on the new moon June 2012 was so dark, I could not see my hands in front of my face when I was awakened at midnight from the horns honking on the street below. We were trying to sleep upstairs above a local market on a hard palette covered with thin cloth. There was no electricity nor running water in the space. There were no covers over us. The environment was unfamiliar and provision was lacking, however, fear did not get the victory that dark night. It was a learning experience that is often referenced. as I move forward in life.

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