lost lake, wandering girl.

Musings from a weekend alone: a hike and fears.

It’s been a while since I spent an entire weekend truly alone.

Adam went to a bachelor party in Palm Springs a few weekends ago, meaning I was dropping him at the airport on Friday morning and picking him up Sunday night.

It was the first stretch of days that belonged just to me—no family, no plans with friends, no Adam.

As with most things, I found myself overthinking it. Well, I need to get XYZ around the house done, I could use this time to write a shit ton of words, I could go exploring, I could go for a really long run, I could catch up on work, I could read some books, I could go to yoga, I could…

Lists were made.

Until I realized I was being ridiculous. Why don’t I just see how I feel each morning and let my body decide?

Lists were thrown out.

Somewhere between the list-making and the overthinking, it occurred to me that what I was really doing was displacing my deep-rooted fear of the dark and being alone in a house.

By rigorously planning out my days, I could distract myself from the fact that I was terrified of the moment when sunset was finished and I found myself utterly alone in a dark, creaky house.

I’ve lived alone before. I’ve spent many nights, months, alone.

But there’s something about being alone in a house, versus an apartment complex or dorm where there’s people around even if you can’t see them, that heightens my lifelong fear of being alone in the dark.

It’s irrational, I realize that, to be terrified of the dark at thirty. (For context, I’m afraid of all creepy things—wrote about that in my Halloween post.) I know that the creaks are the same creaks that happen when Adam is home. I know that the shadows that slant across the ceiling of my dark bedroom are the same shadows from our neighbor’s porch light that are always there. I know that I’m just as likely to be faced by a murderer spontaneously appearing in my bedroom when I’m alone as I am when someone else is home.

But there’s something about the quiet, about the lack of another living presence, that creeps me out, deep to my bones.

I live for the days, for the sunlight that fills them.

I decided to try something new this weekend and instead of distracting myself with to-dos, I just surrendered to the feelings.

I let myself be sweaty and scared at nighttime. And when I woke up from my restless nights, I let myself decide what I actually wanted to do with my sunshine-filled days.

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That’s how I found myself an hour away from home, up in the wilderness of the Grand Mesa, at the beginning of the trail heading to Lost Lake.

This is a hike that I haven’t done in five years, when I was an entirely different person. When I didn’t live here yet and was just visiting with Adam and some friends.

Lost Lake has always held a special place in my heart. I remember the first time I saw her vast beauty, her clear waters, something inside me felt: home.

Now that this place is my home, I feel a deep reverence for the journey that got me here—even though it was hard, rocky, uncertain.

The trail is thin and rocky, with emerged tree roots, fallen pinecones, and vast Douglas Firs towering on each. Purple flowers, green saplings, blue damselflies, mosquitos, and butterflies live alongside me. My senses are filled with woody pine and earth.

An overwhelming feeling of safety fills my body. I feel the exact opposite of how I did just a few hours ago.

Pausing, I realize that Courtney five years ago wouldn’t have felt safe here alone. She would’ve panicked being in the woods by herself.

A seed of hope: maybe there is a future of mine when I feel safe in the dark, alone.

I wander the trail now, taking in the ancient trees and rocks. It occurs to me that these are the same trees that witnessed me years earlier.

I pause in front of one such tree, noticing the sap hardened on her bark. I extend my hand, an offering for her ancient wisdom. As I feel the rough bark against my palm, I close my eyes and breathe in the past, present, and future that she holds in her trunk and that I hold in my body.

For a moment, time itself suspends. I am me, I am that girl from five years ago, I am a million women. I am all of my fears and all of my growth.

Once I make my way to the lake, I am greeted by the clear blue water that glistens with a fade of green. The lake calls to me and I am beckoned to her edge, placing down my backpack.

Having forgotten to wear a bathing suit, I undress down to my sports bra and spandex. I brace for the full-body cold as I step onto the slimy rocks, lingering for a brief second before sliding into the crisp water. No fear.

This place, this lake, feels like I belong to it.

The darkness of the night is waiting for me, but for this moment, it is safe to just be.

xx

Court

a moment of peace.