Mountain Lions & Germans & Bears, Oh My

solo camping in Big Bend National Park

People always tell me I’m brave.

That they can never travel alone like I do.

How do I do it?

I do it scared. I push through my fears and doubts whenever I’m out of my comfort zone. Because if I don’t, I would never try anything new. I’d never be able to create the life that I envision for myself because my fear would dictate my choices.

When I see other people doing something I want to do, the first thing I tell myself is:

And that’s how we get to me going on a road trip alone through the American southwest in my mini-SUV.

After my 10 hour drive from Dallas

I arrive at my first stop – Big Bend National Park.

You might be surprised to hear this but… I’ve never camped by myself. I’ve only camped twice in my life. Once with an ex-boyfriend when we drove to town to eat breakfast every morning. And then once with a friend after we stopped for brunch in Austin. But that was more of a 2-person outdoor party thanks to the goodies I packed.

And now I’m alone in Big Bend with all the time in the world.

I have nowhere to be. My friends and family are working, and even if they try to contact me, I have no cell service.

I’m somewhere near the Mexican border, and Verizon doesn’t reach this far. Further isolating me and forcing me to be present.

I set up camp. Which is just my hammock. Not because I’m roughin it and sleeping in a hammock, but because I’ve got a mattress in my car. That stays in my car. Vent the windows and throw up some covers for privacy, and I’ve got a make-shift bedroom. I’m getting older, and I can’t risk any back problems since I lost my health insurance.

By the time I finish dinner, it’s getting dark.

Which means it’s time for bed. I’m not roasting marshmallows and singing campfire songs. I’m retreating to my car and avoiding the bugs and bears.

As I’m laying down in my suddenly extra miniature SUV that’s now my house, I have the thought:

WTF am I doing here?

Am I crazy for giving up my cush job that required minimal effort? To live out of my car…

I am now intentionally homeless in the middle of nowhere. Alone. I must be crazy.

But then I quiet my thoughts. I remember that I’ve been dreaming about this for months. I’m supposed to be here. Everything will be ok. And most of all, other people do this all the time.

If they can do it, so can I.

I wake up invigorated. I survived my first night! That was easy. What’s next?

Cooking, hiking, looking at rocks, cooking again, all while trying not to melt from the heat.

There’s a pavilion next to my camp that I use for shade as I write. I’ve never routinely journaled before but now seems like a good time to start. I open the journal I've been waiting a year to use and unleash all my thoughts and doubts from the night before. Reassuring myself that I’ve made the right choice.

Yes, it’s quiet and I’m alone without much to do. But I’m happy. And surprisingly, not lonely.

Alone, but not lonely, is a liberating place to be.

As I’m writing, my new camp neighbor arrives. A sweet older German woman, also on her own.

She just left from visiting her daughter in Austin, and now she’s detouring on her drive back home to California. In her Toyota sedan with 222,000 miles on it - a questionably high mileage for such a long drive.

The mileage number sticks with me. Call me crazy, but I use numbers as signs that I’m on the right path.

They're called angel numbers, and people associate different meanings to each one. But I treat them all the same.

Repeated numbers mean:

This is it. I’m doing good.

And what are the chances that she shows up, alone, with this car mileage as I’m writing and confronting my fears?

Over the next couple days, we talk about everything. Our health. The state of the world. She even brings up the Holocaust. There’s no small talk going on here.

She tells me about mountain lion attacks back home in excruciating detail. Then she warns me about them here at the park. Perfect.

The next day

It’s more of the same - cooking, hiking, and not melting. But with some thrills.

Like the teeny fire I almost started while making lunch. Or my hike at Lost Mine Trail with a warning sign for mountain lions. Perfect.

I appreciate the German’s warnings, but now I’m paranoid.

Any time I round a corner I wonder if this is the moment I’ll lock eyes with my death. I’m panting from the anxiety and the physical exertion of the hike, but then I get a grip.

If I keep thinking about it, then one’s going to appear.

I slow my breathing and distract my thoughts. I focus on the views (decent, but nothing spectacular), and I finally make it to the end where I see other hikers. I’ve survived again! Is this what it feels like to be on Survivor?

I quickly hike back down to beat the setting sun, and I meet up with the German for a ranger-led star viewing. It’s too cloudy to see anything, but I learn that the deer I drove past yesterday are only in this region of the U.S. Nice.

We get back to camp and say our goodbyes, so we don’t have to say them early in the morning. She even gives me her phone number and tells me to give her a call if I ever need a place to stay in Los Angeles. I immediately think, I’m not going to LA, but I appreciate the offer. I am homeless after all.

Early the next morning

I cook breakfast, pack out, and head to the hot springs before the midday heat.  The next few hours are me hopping back and forth between the heated pool and the cooling Rio Grande. As families show up with their diapered kids, I know it’s time to go.

I’m driving in a daze. Happy and exhilarated and most of all, empowered. If I can survive this, I can do anything.

Next stop: