No one is immune to fear. Fear is an innate part of the human condition; an evolutionary gift meant to ensure our survival. Even the strongest person you know possesses a fear that shakes them to their core. For some, this fear manifests itself when peering over a ledge. For others, we might find it while flying, speaking publicly, or a spider crawling up your living room wall. These fears can often be irrational, but we can also ground them in real-world experiences.  

I write this essay as a 38-year-old man who has an irrational fear of the dark. The absence of light itself is not what terrifies me. What scares me is the unseen. My overactive imagination fills these ambiguous spaces with intent. Every noise, shadow, or eerie silence is an invitation to let my mind roam. I fill these voids with nonexistent monsters, threats, and scenarios pulled from popular culture.  

As a young kid, I first noticed my fear when being asked to take out the trash after dinner. In the darkness of winter, I slowly made my way toward the alley. With each step, I would quietly scan my surroundings. Each movement of my head found me assessing the threats hiding in the shadows. The smallest rustle would send me sprinting for the garbage can and then back into the safe confines of my family’s home.  

Soon, even my house was filled with fear as I turned on every single light traversing the frightful path from my bedroom to the kitchen and back again. My mind invented scenarios where an unsuspecting version of myself was being watched from the outside through countless windows.  

Also, as a child, I hated being in our church alone. Walking through the sanctuary or down a long hallway, the imagery of Christ’s crucifixion filled me with thoughts migrating straight to the realm of hell, fire, brimstone, demons, and Satan himself. Perhaps I was running from my guilt or away from the sin in my own life, but I have never run faster than I did as a kid in our darkened church.  

 As an adult, I would love to tell you these fears have retired themselves, moved to Florida, and now find themselves fearful of saying the word gay anywhere near a school. I have grown. I am no longer afraid to be home alone, to explore a city street at night, or to walk the garbage to the trash can. I have come to terms with the irrational nature of my fear, but there is still one setting where I do battle with the darkness, and a truce has not yet been called.  

It was the summer of 2020. Most of the country found itself crippled by the COVID-19 pandemic. I was supposed to be somewhere in northern California on the Pacific Crest Trail. Out of an abundance of caution, I elected to forgo that experience. Still filled with a deep desire to hike, two other friends and I chose to tackle the Colorado Trail.  

For the unfamiliar, the Colorado Trail runs from Waterton Canyon, southwest of Denver, to Durango. The trail runs 486 miles and most of the backpacking takes place above 10,000 feet.  

We left Colorado Springs with the sun rising and illuminating the Rockies in indigo and soft oranges. I was hiking with a dear friend from college and another friend from Seattle we met on the Pacific Crest Trail. It crushed us to not be hiking the PCT, but a new spirit of excitement was taking hold.  

With overstuffed packs, we stepped onto the dusty trailhead and began a journey that was supposed to last a month or so. For a couple of hours, we followed a river before gaining elevation and making our way into the mountains. In the middle of the afternoon, we encountered a bear on the trail. He was a small black bear and had been tagged, but the encounter shook us to our core. All the research and trail data told us we would more than likely encounter bears near the beginning of the trail, but nothing really prepares you to round a bend and come face-to-face with one.  

At the moment, we did all the right things. I blew my whistle, screamed, clapped my hands, and made myself look as big as possible. My hiking partners joined in my song. It worked. A small prayer crossed my mind, hoping this would be our last encounter.  

Shaking and full of adrenaline, we pushed forward. We were headed for a spot that was flat and near a water source. When backpacking, you are always thinking about water. An hour or two later, we arrived. Exhausted from the day, we made camp and prepared dinner. As we lit fuel canisters and opened our dehydrated pouches, another bear (or the same bear) attempted to join us in camp. We repeated the loud and annoying chorus of trying to scare it away. Eventually, he grew so frustrated with our banging and screaming that he finally sauntered away.  

The first encounter shook us. The second would keep me awake all night.  

After dinner, we placed our food in bear bags and hung them in between trees with a hope and prayer they would be there in the morning. We then retired to our individual tents and attempted to drift off to sleep. As daylight gave way to twilight, I laid in my sleeping bag on top of my sleeping pad. Our two encounters amplified nature and all her sounds. Sticks breaking, watering flowing downstream, and the breeze blowing through the trees left my mind racing. Sleepless hour after sleepless hour, I laid there in fear our guest might make his return.  

As the sun creeped through the trees, I emerged from my tent. My eyes immediately went to the ground. Seeing no tracks, I checked to see if our bags had been tampered with in any way. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary except the fact that I had not slept at all.  

On our second day, we continued to climb. Slowly, the views were becoming more spectacular. I was exhausted, but enjoyed the hike. My plan was to hike as much as possible. I wanted to tire myself to the point of passing out when my head hit the pillow. Unfortunately, our second night found us camping on an exposed ridge. All night long, wind whipped the sides of our tents. I should mention here that I am an extremely light sleeper. You could walk into my bedroom, snap your fingers, and it would jar me awake. It is a blessing and a curse. The blessing is no one will ever successfully break into my house while I am sleeping. The curse is when sleeping on a ridge after encountering a bear, I will find it impossible to sleep.  

On our third day on the trail, I was really feeling the lack of sleep. The miles ahead of us were going to be trying because there was very little water, and we would be hiking through an exposed burn area. Despite the conditions, I kept slogging and fighting.  

Hours later, we arrived at a wonderful campground nestled in between some rocks and sitting on the edge of a nearly open field. We also had tall trees to hang our bear bags from before retiring for the night.  

As we were making camp, a man who gave us all weird vibes approached my two friends, who are both women. After he left, we all felt nervous about the encounter. As we drifted off to sleep, we all felt a sense of unease.  

Laying in my tent, I bargained with the universe to fall asleep. Outside, I could hear movement and felt as if something or someone was near our camp. Multiple times throughout the night, I grabbed a buck knife gifted to me by my father to prepare for protecting myself. Eventually, the noises stopped. I still could not soundly sleep. It was very apparent to me I was suffering from trail-insomnia. What happened next would make things even worse.  

As I exited the tent, I noticed our bear bags were no longer hanging in the trees. Upon further inspection, I saw all our food and toiletries spread across the ground. Instantly, I knew the sounds I heard during the night were that of a bear. The evidence before me convinced me of that fact. He or she ate everything, including my toothpaste. Flabbergasted, we picked up as much trash as possible and began talking about what to do next.  

One of my hiking mates, Elizabeth, decided she had enough and headed home. Caroline and I pushed forward, but I was deeply concerned about my ability to sleep. What was lurking in the dark and my fear was making it nearly impossible to proceed.  

Over the next few days, we would continue onto Breckenridge. Over the next three or four days spent on the trail, it became abundantly clear to me that sleep and I would not meet on this journey. On the eve of entering Breckenridge, I pulled the plug. Bears, trail insomnia, and my fear of the dark were making it impossible to push forward.  

For nearly a decade now, I have been fixated on completing a long-distance hike. Physically, I know I can do it, but I also know the vital importance of sleep. I also know my fear of the dark is irrational, and, more often than not, it is just my mind playing tricks on me. If I ever attempt this dream of mine again, I know I will need to find solutions to these major challenges.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

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