Before I settled into camp at Ruby Lake, the night of catastrophizing where I became determined to bring appreciation rather than fearful anxiety to what could have been my last night alive, I sat near the lake and prayed, is this the right spot for me to stay tonight?

The lull of the late afternoon ascended as the sun descended behind the craggy peaks of Ruby Lake. The stillness of water, save the champagne like glistening of sunlight dancing across the small expanse, sedated the day's activities. Birds flitted here and thereto find their last nuggets of seeds and bugs for their evening nourishment. The dragonflies, jokering around in two- and threesomes, swerved in and around me at water's edge, occasionally hovering briefly at eye level, as rainbow glistening wings reflected splashes of sun rays. A chipmunk came next to me, perching on a rock overlooking the lake while munching on a pine cone.

Paying me no never mind, I wondered if it had the same awe I did this time of day? Did it choose this specific spot for the view at sunset? Or was it just a convenient relatively flat place where which to eat dinner?

"They really are intimidated by humans," Sally said as we sat around the picnic table at Red's Meadow Resort eating our highly prized Red's burgers. "Just scare them off with loud sounds and act big."

I'd heard this numerous times along the trail. Brown bears--those bears we find in California--aren't interested in humans, but are interested in our food. How many evenings before bed since learning how to backpack three years ago were spent painstakingly going through the ritual of making sure that "everything that goes in or on your body" is safely sealed into a bear-proof canister and stashed some distance from the tent?

So many hours spent fretting about having residual mint fragrance from toothpaste lingering in my mouth or the scent of lotion on my dry cracked hands. Was it enough to be detected? Images of the young camper who awoke to a crunching sound--which turned out to be the sound of his own head being munched by a bear--repeatedly forced their way into my head. I shuddered every time.

The first few days on the trail are usually filled with some anxiety and many questions: Did I remember to pack the soap? Is there enough food? What about bear activity? What am I supposed to do if I encounter a bear? Do I look them in the eye? Act big and try to scare them off?  Did I bring too many pairs of socks? And on. I fiddle with equipment and work to remember where to put things that make the most logical and efficient sense.

For some reason this year, my mind was super activated and super scared. This was my first time solo for 14 days and needing to resupply along the route. My legs were also super antsy at night after hiking five or so miles with 35 pounds on my back. My senses, as always when I'm out in wilderness, were on high alert, particularly listening intently for movement in and around camp in the evenings. I try to arrive at my 'home for the night' early enough in daylight hours so my nervous system can settle into the space before dark. It's something I learned with Shyla, my canine companion, many years before.

I also make an effort to not be right next to running water that is loud enough to block my ability to hear movement around me. It's all survival instinct, I know, and I do my best to make myself as comfortable as I can when I solo hike.