Fear

This past weekend, I took a camping trip to Western Massachusetts with my boyfriend. We car-camped the first night at a site near Tanglewood in Lee, MA. The concert was good, the weather perfect, the campsite sort of bright, near a powerstation and not particularly rustic. The next day we moved our camp to a hike-in campsite on Mt. Greylock. This site was much more lovely, lush and authentic. Real camping.

The hike from the parking lot to the campsite was only about 1.3 miles (some signs said 1 mile, others, 1.3 and still others 1.4). Not a tough hike, although I did find myself needing to stop here and there to catch my breath, especially when we had the packs on carrying all of our gear. It felt good to do that kind of physical work.

After setting up camp for night #2, we hiked back to the car and headed to Tanglewood for a second performance, stopping to gather some snacks and beverages for the evening.

Evening concerts begin at 8:30pm — it is dark when the concerts starts, darker when it ends.

The whole day I was psyching myself up to get ready for the pitch-black, head-lamp lit hike back to the campsite. I hadn’t hiked at night before, but there had to be a first time for everything. I realize that this is not a big deal to many, but it felt like one to me.

There have certainly been times in my life when I have been unnecessarily afraid to do certain things. For instance, when I was in third grade, I went for a sail on the Clearwater Sloop, a floating school started by Pete Seeger designed to teach school children about keeping the Hudson River clean and about ecology in general. Boy did I soak that trip up. It was cold and rainy, I remember, but I really dug the hippie teachers and was interested in the whole enterprise. That is, until they started passing sea creatures around; I was not comfortable with touching the animals at all. Ridiculous, I know.

You might think that it is interesting that I remembered that detail of something that happened in 1983 (I know know several people who were not even born in the early 80′s, so this makes me feel very old, of course), however I didn’t have to remember all of the details as a reporter from the local paper was on the trip with us, followed me around all day and wrote an op-ed the next day from the perspective of one of the kids on the sloop — me. In particular, he ran a large photo of me, outfitted in my raspberry colored, zip-off sleeved ski jacket and hand knit hat, and the caption read, “Shannon McDonough not touching a seastar.”

This guy, who I thought was my friend for the day, picked the one moment that I chose NOT to participate and immortalized it! Smart reporter, nice hook. However, it has stuck with me as a silly example of my being afraid to do something that was new to me.

I have spent much of my life doing things that make me feel uncomfortable, that are new, that are daring within the framework of my family and some of my friendships. I think that this journalist did me a favor — he made a micro-spectacle of my hesitation, and as an unintended result, forced me to put many decisions I make under a microscope, teasing out the possible outcomes and trying very hard to make the right decision, even if it is one that means taking the harder route. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But, it is very rare that I would say that I didn’t try something, even if I don’t succeed.

So, cut to this past weekend, we drive from Tanglewood back to the campground parking lot on Mt. Greylock, we get out of the car, I am feeling pretty anxious, but I know that lots of my friends are experienced campers who have encountered bears and other wild animals in the woods and have lived to tell the tales. I put on my headlamp (yes, I own one) pulled out my small flashlight and switched on a mini-flashing light attached to my fleece zipper. Yes, I realize how ridiculous all of this makes me look, but I was determined to let any living thing on that wooded path know that I was coming.

And then I heard it.

Not over the hill, not 300 yards away, but probably 75 feet away, but hidden. Not so much a howl but a loud, yelpy bark — a wild dog? A wolf? I had no idea what it was but it sounded at least as big as I was. My resolve to forge ahead with this uncomfortable task evaporated completely, on the spot.

There was no way that I was going to walk 1, 1.3 or 1.4 miles back to that campsite, no matter if I had a neon sign around me and the bells of St. Mary’s ringing my arrival. No way, no how. Get me to a motel room. Stat.

And that is what I did. I felt that I was letting down my boyfriend and generally being a wimp. But, every part of me just screamed, “this is not a good idea!”

Happily, my boyfriend was more interested in making sure that I was having fun on the trip than making it back to that campsite. We got a room, got some sleep and hiked back up in the morning. No harm, no foul.

This whole thing has got me thinking about how fears, no matter how small, can be immobilizing and debilitating. At other times, I am learning, I need to do what feels right for me in a given situation.

At any rate, I do try to push myself to find a little bit of value in the effort I put in, even if I don’t wind up where I thought I would be. It would be nice to have things come easily, but then, I don’t know what I would do with myself if they did! Maybe one day I will get my name in the paper for something I did do correctly instead of something I didn’t do at all. All I can do is try.

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