I arrived at Earthaven, deep in the wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains, around 8 p.m. on Friday, just in time to pitch a tent before dark.
Earthaven Ecovillage is a world within the world, totally off the grid and self-sustainable, operating under its own set of social codes. It’s a commune near Black Mountain, North Carolina, a few hundred acres of huge gardens and cob houses of all shapes, colors, and sizes, built by the 90-some people who live here. It’s almost like its own country. It takes a few days to adjust.
Deb, a friend from back home, lives at Medicine Wheel, a large house that often serves as the first stop for people traveling through, staying here on work trade, or looking to move here permanently. I thought it would be a good stop along my way. I could catch up with a dear friend who I haven’t seen in a couple years and enjoy the fresh mountain air, camping under the stars.
When I was done pitching my tent in the forest, she told me I should pee around it, to mark my territory for “critters.”
“Do you mean bears?”
“Toby saw a bear here this morning. It was sitting on a big rock where he meditates. He thinks it saw him, and then it took a shit on top of the rock.”
“Have you seen bears?”
“Only once. It was here in the campground.”
She told me to carry bear mace. She told me all of this very nonchalantly.
Bears are my biggest fear. Like higher than being abducted by aliens. Higher than public speaking. I think they’re my totem animal.
I took my first pee beside my tent, inadvertently peeing on my keys as they dropped out of my pocket.
So far, so good.
I should mention that the campground is really just a forest with a space cleared for a fire pit (that I’m not allowed to use) and a compost toilet of sorts. It’s beautiful but wild. Truly wild.
By the time I got everything from my car ready to go for the night, it was pitch black outside. So dark, I couldn’t see a foot in front of me. Nothing. Realizing this, I was suddenly terrified to leave the safety of my car to walk down the dirt road with a flashlight and then try to find my tent in the woods while possibly running into a bear. I debated it for a good hour, then rearranged everything in my hatchback and made a bed with some towels and a pillow I had left in there.
Did not sleep well.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what I was going to do for the next two weeks. The plan was to stay here for two weeks. Am I gonna sleep in my car for two weeks?
The next night, I decided to brave the woods alone. Get there at dusk. Get inside my tent. Wait for darkness to descend. Pray.
I did. And I slept so soundly, the sound of the creek lulling me to sleep. Then I did it again the next night. And the next. Deep, deep slumber—no light, no wifi, no electricity, just earth and sky and the cool, rippling creek. I thought I’d conquered something, grown. I carried my bear mace with me everywhere. I wore my bear bells like a warrior.
But eventually, the wilderness won. After a restless night, with wild animals waking me every hour or two, curiously poking and prodding at my tent (one actually scurrying around underneath it, somehow), I woke at 4 a.m. to the sound of growling, panting, and snarling. A pack of something—coyotes, I assume—surrounded my paper-thin tent, and I lied there, holding my breath, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I lied there, waiting. It felt like a movie. Would they shred the tent? Would they shred me? Eventually, I heard them run off, one by one, and could see their vague shadows passing by my tent. I never did fall back asleep.
It’s a delicate balance out here, finding time for rest and work, space for wilderness and culture. I’m learning as I go.
*some names have been changed to protect privacy