Going in

I've seen a lot of sunshine, slept out in the rain

Spent a night or two all on my own

-- John Denver, Poems, Prayers and Promises

I have hiked and backpacked all over. I've set foot to both the Appalachian and Pacific Crest Trails. I've climbed mountains in the northwest and gazed at volcanoes and the Pacific Ocean in the same 360 degree view. I've followed elk through the snow in Colorado and buffalo through the hills of South Dakota.

But until recently, I had never spent a single night in the backcountry alone. There are several reasons for this odd gap in my outdoor experience. I am a natural extrovert, and though I'm the type who requires small spells of aloneness, I don't seek solitude in my outdoor activities. I like the company. I like the presence of a companion, another pair of feet hitting the path near mine and another set of eyes and ears to share the sense of being in nature. And aside from that, having a trip partner lightens your pack weight considerably.

But most important reason I never actively sought to head into the backcountry alone was fear. The only time I've ever truly worried for my life was on a backpacking trip (interestingly, my first one). The two times I've encountered people at close range who truly terrified me were on hiking trips (including the one I just mentioned). And, depending on where you are, there are also all manner of non-human animals to watch for. The hazards aren't insignificant.

Bill Bryson tackled the complications of backpacking without a partner in A Walk in the Woods:

Then there were all the problems and particular dangers of solitude. I still have my appendix, and any number of other organs that might burst or sputter in the empty wilds. What would I do then? What if I fell from a ledge and broke my back? What if I lost the trail in blizzard or fog, or was nipped by a venomous snake, or lost my footing on moss-slickened rocks crossing a stream and cracked my head in a concussive blow? You could drown in three inches of water on your own. You could die from a twisted ankle. No, I didn't like the feel of this at all.

Indeed. There are innumerable things that can go wrong when you're alone in the wilderness. But they can also go wrong when you are not alone. When I wrestled it down, what I feared most was the fear itself -- or at least, handling the fear by myself. Humans are communal beings; the feelings of security that arise from solidarity in the face of danger or challenge have a very real basis, and are deeply etched. What I feared was not so much an actual event, but the mental agony of being terrifyingly alone upon hearing the dreaded sound outside the tent, encountering the weirdo, and dealing with the ambiguity of a frightening situation. Aggravating that set of problems is my femaleness. I have a whole additional set of fears that have been drummed into my psyche.

So why did I feel the need to throw all that off? As my friend Jeannie says -- and I partially agree with her on this -- stepping outside your comfort zone is highly overrated. (The Onion makes this point with humor.)

Well, again, there are several reasons. For one thing, I don't like being too dependent on the schedule, availability or desires of another. I need the outdoors. If I'm inside too long, I start to get itchy and uncomfortable. While I'm lucky that my partner feels the same way, our available time doesn't always match. If I can occasionally indulge my need to be outside without reference to someone else, I'm better off, and more pleasant generally.

But that's not the only reason. I'd gotten into a mini-rut recently. Those ruts make me nervous. I got into one in my early 30s and didn't come out for more than five years. And if I look back over my life, the only thing that ever gets me over the lip of a rut is doing hard things. Doing things that seem surpassingly difficult cracks open the landscape. There's a certain curiosity about what might happen when you embark on a difficult task. It's a roll of the dice, a deliberate introduction of the random into the routine.

That, and I derive my self-esteem from achievement, and so I'm willing to run certain risks to obtain that. After you've given something difficult a real, solid shot, you can't help but feel a rush of confidence and pride. It doesn't really matter whether you succeed or fail, as long as you've held yourself to the bargain and demanded of yourself what you're capable of instead of what is merely comfortable.

I determined that my first night alone in the backcountry would be in Indiana -- quite possibly the mildest place on earth in which to spend a night alone. There is no fauna worth fearing here. The worst thing I was likely to face was a demanding raccoon or an angry field mouse. There are no mountains here, trails are generally easy to follow and if they are not, you will hit a road eventually. The biggest threats here are people and weather. And I had Thomas.

No big deal.

I expected the trip to be reassuring. I expected it to be a peaceful, centering journey that laid bare the irrationality of my primitive-brain fears. Instead, I got something much more valuable: I got a VIP tour of the geography of my own fear response -- exactly what I had hoped to avoid in the first place, but infinitely more interesting and electric.