January 31, 2024

This morning, I woke up at 4 AM. When I opened the back door to let the dogs out, it was cold and pouring down rain. To their credit, all four dogs went outside and did their business despite the weather. I made some coffee and sat down to write, but the dogs were feeling especially rowdy. I fed them earlier than usual and within half an hour; they were all back asleep.

Before getting ready for work, I worked out and then jumped into the shower. I had a busy morning schedule, and I wanted to be prepared for a few key meetings. I would be at my desk most of the day, except for a quick trip to the Piggly Wiggly for a Wild Mike’s frozen pizza. It was pizza night.

After work, I went for my customary walk through the woods. Lately, while I’m in the forest, I’ve made time to sit down quietly and think, contemplating various ideas. As they say, a writer spends a majority of their time thinking.

On the way to my sitting spot, I noticed most of the deer corn I laid down a few days ago was still there. It appeared the feeding frenzy was over, and I lamented the deer’s absence. This time of year, it is not uncommon for deer to move on to a different location. Deer will usually live within one square mile. While that doesn’t sound like a large area, it’s actually six hundred and forty acres. I still find that unbelievable.

I sauntered down the trail, thinking about how I would miss the deer. Suddenly, I heard something familiar. It was faint and off in the distance, but it was the distinct sound of a deer’s bark. The deer were still around. Earlier, in the pine grove, I saw a large rubbing mark in the pine needles. It was too big to be anything other than a deer.

When I arrived at Beaver Teeth Rock, I plopped down and pulled out my journal. It was cold and the damp air made it feel more so. In the winter months, the entire area looked sparse; rugged. On social media, everyone, myself included, seems to post scenic views full of color and life. Nature is this, but it also has a shadow. Life in the wild is harsh; severe.

This winter, I drove to Raleigh to visit a museum. The weather was cold and I remember some people waiting at the door before leaving, thinking the weather was going to improve somehow. Their clothes were more fashionable than functional in terms of warmth. At one point, it rained, which literally kept people trapped inside, again, trying to wait out the weather.

In the past year, I have spent a lot of time outdoors. And this winter, I’ve spent hours at a time outside in the subfreezing temperatures. After some time, I noticed it still felt cold outside, but my attitude changed. If I wanted to go for a hike, or to take photographs, it stopped mattering whether it was freezing, windy, or rainy. I just went. Spending time out in winter’s harshness didn’t make me feel warmer, but I became accustomed to it. Hands so cold, I couldn’t move my fingers; normal. A numb face from the biting wind; normal. Being uncomfortable; normal.

Thinking about this, I realized nature is harsh. It is tough, and if you spend enough time with her, you will become more like her. Time in the woods has taught me to accept, and even cherish, nature’s severity. While being uncomfortable is never fun, the things you see, the experiences you have, and the value you receive from being outdoors makes the trade off worth it.

When I am out in the nature, I am my most focused, most relaxed, sharpest, and happiest self. And if you take the time to get closer to nature, she rewards you by giving you the ability to bear her. It is really nice having a cute house, dependable car, and warm, soft bed. But these things also take me away from where I want to be. When the sun goes down and I head inside, it feels like I’m walking back into my cage.

Yes, the house is warm and relaxing. There is food and drink. There is protection from the elements. But somehow, I would rather sit on this rock, out in the cold, alone in the dark, hearing these sounds, inhaling these smells, tasting this life. When someone asks me what is most difficult about living out in nature, I always tell them it’s having to go back inside at the end of the day. That’s why I go out every evening at what I have termed “last light”. Last light, to me, is the last chance I have to be where I want to be, before heading back into captivity.

On the way home, I took a trail toward the grove just inside the tree line next to an empty crop field. The golden light of the setting sun lit up a large herd of deer, making their dull gray winter coats look more like their reddish spring fur. The herd was still near. They all stared at me while I stole glances, walking calmly down the trail. In the herd, a large buck seemed interested but wary. While passing by a trail camera, I pulled the SD card and put it in my pocket.

When I was inside my home, the warm air made my stiff hands pulse and throb, with the feeling of poking needles. I laughed, noting that the comfort of my home was seemingly punishing me for my adventurous escape from conformity.