L'enfer, c'est les autres

Scout and I have a deal. I drag his neurotic ass half way to Alaska and I stop from time to time to let him out to pee. And, once we arrive, I take him with me whenever I possibly can and avoid leaving him in the cabin on his own where it is safe and warm.

I've been meaning to clarify some other terms for you, writing terms. When I use the word "we" I am referring to me and Scout and if I say "I," I am referring to me and Scout except when I mean just me. Got it? Like when "I" have a hot stone massage tomorrow, he won't have one. He doesn't like hot stone massage, he prefers deep tissue and Corrie doesn't do deep tissue.

We had a nice long walk this morning with Aju, but I cut it short wanting to leave some in the tank for the daily afternoon outing. Today's adventure on Channel Ridge Trail treated me to one of the moments that have come to define my time on the island. A moment when I say to my furry companion "Oh yes, this is why I do this. This is why I drag our asses this far. And, really, don't you just love this and wish we could do it every day?" Mostly he just stares at me blankly and pulls harder on the leash and reminds me that if I refuse to untether him, I will have to keep up. But today, just for five minutes, I made him just stand there with me and absorb the view, the peace, the quiet, the solitude the incredible, unparalleled feeling of complete safety out in a forest. I come here to remember that there are still places where, if I am just a tad bit sensible, I have nothing to fear. All this to say that women can walk alone in the forest at any time, walk down any street at any time and sit anywhere at any time on this island and fear no stranger.

So there I was today, on the fine-tuned Channel Ridge trail, without water, without a map and without a clue how long it might be before a blinding rainstorm descended. But I was not afraid. I brought my sense of direction with me, the trail markers were unbelievably clever and I was on a ridge of an island of finite proportions circled by roads; an island where heading down from any mountain in any direction long enough leads to civilization. On an island in a country where the immigration officer asks with a smile, how long am I staying and am I bringing in a gun.

It is challenging sometimes for me to accept that I have so much fear; the review of the origins of which would leave all of us longing for a door out of the rabbit hole. It has tinted the lens for me and I realize how important it is for me to clear it often, but it is a bit like horse poo on my boots; bits come off, but the deep stuff, the stuff in the treads of my psyche still stick. This is not the stuff that a good swish in a baptismal puddle will clear out and it is not easily left in the chair in the corner of the shrink's office. This is about shedding a fear that I cannot seem to shake, address, control, mitigate, bear. It is the fear I have when a sound wakes me up in Oakland at 4 am and I realize that I may have forgotten to lock the front door. It is the fear I have when I am walking home from my favorite restaurant after 2 drinks and realize I left my street sense on the bar next to the tip for Kate. It is the fear I have when my friends tell me they walk home late at night from the train, without fear. I hate this fear. And while I am certain, fairly deeply, that anything that could happen would conclude with an "I will be fine," I can't help but hope to never have my faith tested in this way. And since I can't shake it, I leave it at the border with the nice man in the tiny booth who only wants to know if this American and her dog are packing.

I am 3 weeks into a life without this fear. It is a seductive siren calling to me regularly and while I sometimes miss the companionship of my ship mates, I come.

P.S. Sometimes I think Sarte was right.