Two Week Window

I tried to find someone at the main office of the campground, but there was no one there. As time went on, it became more obvious just how much my feet hurt. All I could think about was taking my shoes off. My husband had arrived to drop off food and bandages, and we talked for a bit. He was horrified to see how sore my feet looked already, but he knew better than to suggest that I stop. He was quite used to my challenges and stupid ideas, and he had never tried to hold me back. He rarely even commented; he just supported. I was lucky to have someone who seemed to understand me so well. Truth be told, I didn’t understand myself most of the time— doing this kind of stuff just fueled me and kept me happy. It was the only way I knew how to be. I knew if there ever came a day that I couldn’t do these things, it would be crippling to me—probably mentally more than physically. I was always motivated to stay active and do adventurous things.

I hoped that the day when I couldn’t do these things would never come.

After my husband left, I was laying out my sleeping bag when I noticed a tick. I brushed it off, unsurprised because I’d noticed one on my leg earlier that day. I knew I was going to have to find the showers and do a tick check before bed. I wasn’t worried because I’d sprayed 30 percent DEET on myself that morning. I had even added tea tree oil around my feet and legs since I’d been told that it too was a tick deterrent. I had worn long, tight running leggings that day, and because it was cold and wet, I had on a T-shirt, long-sleeved shirt, and rain jacket. And of course, I had been wearing my forty-pound backpack all day. You can imagine my surprise when, as I was getting ready for my shower, I found five ticks on my back. The lighting was horrible in the bathroom, and since it was dusk, very little natural light filtered in through the windows. I was, however, able to swipe most of them off. Your back is a horrible spot to find ticks, especially when you’re alone. There was one that seemed really attached under my right shoulder blade—the one spot that was hardest for me to reach, of course. I went back to camp and got a flashlight and tweezers, neither of which seemed to help the situation at all. I couldn’t get at the tick easily and had to keep trying until I felt it was all gone. I did not remove it well—there is no doubt about that. I removed it in tiny pieces, none of which I could collect to have tested.

I wasn’t really concerned, though. I had always been told that a person was safe if the tick was removed within twenty-four hours. That tick couldn’t have transmitted Lyme already. I did, however, decide that I would be smart and see a doctor when I was done with the hike. As park staff, I had received annual training on Lyme and on tick identification and removal. I was well aware that this was not something to overlook. My younger self would’ve brushed it off, but the smarter, more mature me was learning not to take anything for granted. I didn’t worry about the ticks again and felt that seeing a doctor would be an adequate safety precaution.

After my shower, I headed back to my campsite, where I had to scare off raccoons. I had promised my husband that if I was alone, I would go to a proper campsite. I originally had planned to camp at a clearing along the trail, but he was concerned for my safety due to the black bears in the area. I had worked on a black bear project many years earlier that involved filming them in the wild. I had come prepared with precautions such as bear spray, and I was ready to employ all the bear-prevention measures related to my food. Regardless, I had kept my promise and gone to a campsite.

I hadn’t really thought about raccoons; I had always really liked them. As a young child, I rescued four babies whose mother was killed on the road. That lasted about two nights because I couldn’t keep up with the hourly feedings they needed. Eventually, I had to give up and take them to a wildlife rescue center. The owners of the stables where we kept our horses also had a pet raccoon, BJ, whom I had fallen in love with. After that, I had always really wanted a pet raccoon. That night at the campsite, however, they became my nemeses.

I ate a little more food and then decided to pack the rest away for the next day. That sounds easier than it is when you have only a backpack and a one-man tent. The tent was the smallest and lightest on the market, meaning my backpack had to stay outside; I had bought it specifically to add as little weight as possible to my pack. The raccoons eventually won, getting food out of my pack through a little hole in the bottom made for the hydration hose. I then brought my pack into the tent with me. The only way to fit it in was for me to lie on my back with the forty pounds on top of me. I couldn’t move at all that night, but at least the raccoons were no longer driving me nuts. Once again, I started to laugh. If anyone could see me now, crammed into this tiny tent with a large backpack lying on top of me, that person would most certainly think I had lost my mind. I also thought that I had better leave early the next morning because my silhouette must look very strange from outside the tent. I was still laughing, though, and that was important.