Into the Woods

The idea hit first when I was sitting next to Jimmie in fifth grade during story hour. Our teacher read us books about the West, life in the “olden days”, and survival stores set in the prairie and mountains. I could hardly get enough of it. We read My Antonia, and the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. But one story took on a life of its own. I don’t remember the title, but this book was about a boy who lived in a burned out Sequoia tree for an entire year, completely alone. The story chronicled his experience of gathering and storing food for winter, occupying his time during rainstorms, and befriending animals. My 11-year old imagination took over and soon I was seeking out solitary woods in which to live for a year.
My first choice was one of the many large stands of deciduous trees with dense underbrush situated between farmer’s fields in our county. Deer, coyote, fox, and smaller animals such as raccoon and possums lived there. Riding back and forth from school, I used to stare out the window of the bus and study the land so I could select just the right place in the woods to escape into. I wanted a place where I could slip into the woods without being seen, yet be far enough away from people that no one would accidentally come across me. I wanted to be invisible to the outside world and focus my attention on soaking up the quiet, calm of the moist community of the woods.

It was about this time that I took an interest in taxidermy, much to my parents’ horror. Mostly, I skinned intact road kill and tried to learn how to cure the hides of raccoon and deer by rubbing salt into the skin after soaking it for a long time in the creek. I still remember the fetid odor associated with that particular experiment. Once, a neighbor farmer called to let me come down and skin a calf that had died. I don’t remember what ever became of that, except that the calf was very bloated. Mother once caught me dissecting a dead squirrel on the kitchen table using her good paring knife. That was when she and my father decided to buy me a dissecting kit, in the hopes that these forays into science would lead me into a surgical career. I eventually grew out of this most uncomely pastime, but I never lost my desire to be alone in the vastness of the wilderness.

There were days I used to fantasize about hiking the Appalachian Trail for a summer. I would do it alone, mosquitoes and trail criminals be damned. Later, I discovered the Sierra Nevada mountains. After conquering numerous peaks, I thought I might be physically able to spend a summer up behind Mt. Whitney. But I fell in love, and that ended my plans.

Last month PBS aired a program about a 50-something man who went into Alaska’s outback and built his own cabin. He lived there alone for over 30 years. I watched the program twice, scrutinizing everything, mentally recording his every move. That aching desire that had flickered during years of getting a PhD, falling in love, becoming overwhelmed with life, was fanned back into a full blaze.

So it is not surprising that when I commute to my job through mountains every week, that I find myself scanning the hills and bends in the river—to find just the right place to hike up into the woods and build a small dwelling—close enough to the river to fish, yet situated in a place protected from the wind.

I am a professional woman in suit and heels, technical lexicon and impeccable classroom demeanor. Yet my longing is like unrequited love for a dream that almost became a reality. Maybe one day I will slip off into the north woods and find a hollowed out tree.