Beasts of the Darkness

Huddling against a tree trunk in complete darkness, I raised my hand in front of my face: not even a silhouette. Rain fell on the leaves around me and I could not hear or see anything. I was afraid. An ancient fear that I didn’t remember feeling. The desire to turn my headlight on was overwhelming. I relentlessly focused on the rhythm of my breath to avoid the temptation. Time froze waiting for the gray light of dawn.

When I left the warmth of my pickup twenty minutes before, the raindrops sparkled in the beam of my headlamp. I had a one mile hike ahead of me in the black hours of the early morning. There is a silence in the woods at that hour that amplifies lurking thoughts. Not entirely rational I admit, but I found it difficult not to imagine what could be prowling out there beyond the illumination of my battery-powered torch. My head was on a swivel, and the cool white glow moved from trunk to trunk, as I made my way up the edge of the small creek bed toward the wetland.

Walking in the darkness.

The rocky ground and the crackle of my footsteps faded into the soft forest floor under the hemlocks that surrounded the open marshy area. Blocked by a beaver dam on one side, I slowly skirted the clearing to hunt the thick cover where the stream fed what the beavers had inadvertently made a bird sanctuary. In the darkness and the rain, the birds were quiet. 

The pillowy and peaty needles that fell below the hemlocks gave way to thicker brush, tall grass and wet ground. I was close. I turned from the edge of the water to move into the thicker cover. In the wet mud along the stream, my faint light caught what I was looking for: deer hoof prints. They were moving perpendicular to the creek in what seemed like a well-used crossing heading into the woods on either side. Ten yards away, I spied a small opening in the trees and brush. I found where I would wait for sunrise, sat down with my back against a sheltering hemlock and reluctantly turned off my light. 

And there I was: afraid in the darkness. The fictional creatures that had been waiting just beyond the glow of my LEDs were advancing with the sound of every falling raindrop. I held my backpack for warmth or subconscious protection of my vital organs. It was hard to tell. Parts of my mind and my imagination that had long been dormant were alive and well. I continued to breathe deeply. Despite my fear, I was connected with the wild. I was connected with myself. I was alive.

When the first gray shapes of the rainy morning light began to outline the trees around me, every passing minute brought more relief. I was wet and cold, but the return of my eyesight was a welcome gift and the beasts I created all around me began to fade as the stream side clearing came into view. I sat waiting quietly for a deer to materialize.

There was a thick blanket of fog settling just above the trees and the raindrops were becoming larger and more frequent. I braved the November showers for as long as I could but eventually the cold triumphed over my willpower. I got up, donned my pack, picked up my bow and began the soggy trek back to the warmth of my vehicle. 

As the engine warmed and the hot air began to invite the blood back into my fingers, the darkness already seemed so distant. The fear and the imaginary beasts of the night. How silly I had been. But out there in the darkness, rationality did not rule. Rather it was my own distinct awareness of my fragility that developed the intensity of walking in the dark woods alone.

Though I become more comfortable with my fear each time I walk into the woods, it is always present. It stirs a primal part of my being. It reminds me that I am deeply connected to the history of my ancestors hunting in the darkness and imagining dangerous beasts closing in around them.