83. There’s a Reason People Don’t Backpack Alone
Years back, I was out solo backpacking in the Pecos Wilderness of northern New Mexico. Camping about a six-hour hike from the nearest pavement way up past Puerto Nambe. I typically used an enclosed camping hammock. Lightweight, bug proof, packs up small with a rain fly. No need to carry a pad or mat. Just need two trees.
It’s easy and perfect for solo camping. When you’re in it, with the full fly on, you don’t have any real visibility around you. The top was totally enclosed by bug screen. To get inside, you sort of climbed into a slit in the bottom, and then your weight pulled and held it closed. It worked well, but it was a convoluted process to get in and out of.
I picked a spot just at the edge of the tree line, so I could cook on the edge of the meadow with a view of Santa Fe Baldy. Ate dinner, cleaned up, bags in trees, looked at probably a billion stars, and then processed myself into the hammock for the night. At some point, in the pitch black, I bolted awake. I heard the crunching of footsteps in the pine needles around me.
It was the kind of awake where you go from fast asleep to instantly hyper-aware, but totally frozen. I make absolutely no sound. I can’t look outside, lighting a light would only illuminate the hammock like a lamp and leave me totally blind to the surroundings. The crunching continues as if it’s circling the hammock. I’m not sure how long I held my breath.
The crunching is right alongside me. I have zero clue what it is. Suddenly, something PUSHES against the side of my hammock, and in the hammock, that means it pushed against me. I could feel its body heat. This isn’t a tent wall, where you can cower away from it. If you lean, the hammock moves with you. Whatever it was seemed to use its snout to nuzzle or root against the side of the hammock, like it was sniffing something out.
I was still holding deathly still, trying to come up with a plan to get away, which would involve trying to slash the opposite side with my knife. The thing pushes again and slides up the side of the hammock. I could feel the texture of its fur/hide/hair/whatever scraping against the nylon side. I hear a sharp snort, and it crunches away.
I’m not sure how long I stayed absolutely still, but at some point, the sun came up and I ventured into the daylight. I looked around the campsite and could find no evidence of a visitor. The tree line edge was floored with pine needles, so there were no prints or tracks. None of my other gear was disturbed, the guy lines for the fly were all still tight, and I didn’t see any marks on the side of the hammock.
I couldn’t even find a broken twig. I’m not sure it even happened. I’ve never slept in a hammock since.