Why I Solo Hike the Wild Places at 70
Sunrise in the Sawtooth Mountains, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
I hike alone in the dark. In the wild places.
I’m neither reckless nor fearless. I’m chasing light.
Sometimes, I’m waiting behind my camera for the sun to gild a mountain top. Other times, I’m hoping to catch a moose feeding on pondweeds. Now and then, something so surprising happens; I forget all about my camera and stand in silent wonder.
One summer morning, I set up for a landscape shot I’d scouted the day before. I turned off my headlamp. Shapes in the dark were taking form.
Nothing to do but wait for the right light.
Or so I thought.
I was about to take a few test shots when I felt a rumble rise from the ground, up through my heavy boots. I live in the Yellowstone ecosystem. Earthquakes are common. This was different. The steading pounding told me a herd of elk was thundering toward me.
I was at a wildlife preserve about an hour’s drive from home. I knew it supported a herd of elk, but I’d never seen them. I raised my binoculars. If I was in their path, I might have time to get back to my Jeep. I spotted them about two football fields ahead on the trail, running across and turning south, safely away from me.
Cow Elk, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
They were all mamas and calves. No bulls. Not surprising. Bull elk keep to themselves until the fall rut. They’re the best of friends until the mating season and then the fight is on. I watched the cow elk rise and disappear with their calves over the rolling fields until they were out of sight.
Bull Elk, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
I didn’t care I’d missed my sunrise shot. My hikes alone into the wild had become less about photography and more about fear.
There’s no trail marked “This Way Back to Normal”
I didn’t always go into the wild alone. In March of 2020, when the pandemic shut down our lives, the life I loved shut down forever. There was no hope of a return to normal for me.
My husband died after a decade-long illness. I told everyone I was fine. It would be a long time before my feelings matched my words.
I had no idea how to be in this world without my best friend. Our honeymoon lasted over thirty years, and we’d completely lost track of where one of us left off and the other began.
A view of the White Cloud Mountains. Idaho. By Kris Cochran
In the last years of my husband’s life, when his hiking days were over, I packed the Jeep with his medications, feeding tube supplies, and oxygen. We drove down scenic byways, up Forest Service roads, and across game trails far enough to see wild horses run along a ridgeline. Far enough to stand in a sea of mountain tops. Far enough to ask for one more day.
It was easy to venture into the wilderness with my husband. An experienced outdoorsman, Terry knew which trails dried out in early spring and which ones remained below the snow line well into fall. I took photos to hang in every room like trophies. The doctors had given him a year at the most. We were beating death by a decade.
Until we weren’t.
I put my camera on a shelf to collect dust. When you lose your partner, you lose all sense of direction.
The fear of life is no different than the fear of death
By late fall of 2020, across the country in New Jersey, my seven-year-old grandson struggled with the isolation of COVID. He resisted online learning and missing out on first grade with his friends. I became his new FaceTime game buddy. One day he asked me a question I believe was heaven sent.
“Nana,” he asked, “what do you do when you’re not talking to me? Are you going on any adventures?”
I hadn’t shared any pictures with young Will since I drove through Yellowstone on Mother’s Day. I had been gently encouraging him to play the hand you’re dealt since life doesn’t always give you a choice.
I wasn’t setting much of an example. Most days, when we rang off in mid-afternoon, I went to bed with a book.
That afternoon, I cleaned my camera, charged my batteries, and reserved a cabin. If I could find courage anywhere, it would be along my favorite stretch of the Salmon River.
Until the 1880s, the Shoshone people flourished undisturbed along the banks of the Salmon. When the gold miners and loggers came, the river was dubbed “The River of No Return.” In a time before jet boats, the wild river was only navigable downstream. There was no booking a return trip.
“The River of No Return,” Salmon, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
For me, this stretch of wild river has no horizon between heaven and earth. Here, bighorn sheep graze lazily and nap in the sun. Great blue herons stand on river boulders scanning the shallows for trout. Eagles perch in tall pines. I hiked along the Salmon for three days, soothed by the abundance of life.
Sunset comes early in a deep canyon. As I drove out in darkness the final day, I knew I would return to all the wild places my guide had taken me. I had lived with the fear of death for a decade, then for months with the fear of life. I realized the worst had already happened to me.
There was nothing left to fear.
We’re all on a trip down “The River of No Return”
I’d like to say I’ve lived fearlessly since. I haven’t. I’m still making runs at going into the wild alone. I can be a hundred miles down the highway anticipating a day on the trail when I turn my Jeep around and head for the safety of home.
But not every time.
A friend admonished me, “You can’t hike alone in the wilderness.”
I’m a widow. I am alone in the wilderness. My best friend has gone on to his next adventure. There’s no booking a return trip.
The trail ahead is unmarked
I’ve been a writer most of my professional life. First as a small community journalist and editor, then the last several years as a ghostwriter. Writing for others served me well. I could work from home and care for the best traveling companion a gal ever had.
It’s not who I am anymore. I don’t want a ghost of a life, to be found like Dickens’s Miss Havisham, shades drawn against the light of life, shrouded in cobwebs, and longing for a lover I cannot have.
I’ll take this unmarked trail and play the hand I’m dealt. Life has given me no choice. I’ll hike the wild places, camera in my backpack, and write to share the wonder and wisdom of nature.
Thanks for walking with me,
Kris
