I resent screens for being the method by which I must connect with other humans. Out here, I am connected to the whole world, though the quality is universally considered “alone”. Last night I was interested in sleep just before dusk. In the glowing ever-deeper green evening ebb of activity, I gathered myself fully into my open tent/trunk. A few minutes later, in the duskiest of forest light, a Pileated woodpecker cackled into view not twenty yards from my perch.

Do you know these animals? I have certainly become inured to the stature of most predatory birds. We joke that it’s not really a Maine day if you haven’t seen a Bald eagle, but my pop’s house near the Great Lakes gets eagle visits all the time. Pileated woodpeckers though are this uncanny mix of hoppity hopping tree-loving bird and actual dinosaur that is maybe too heavy for that branch. Like many woodpeckers from around these northeastern climes, Pileateds have a red crest. Unlike any other however, that crest is an actual flat top. Literally they look like Jim Carrey as the Riddler but only on the very top and in a much more flattering shade. Also the rest of their outfit is much more stylish and attractive. So going back to the flat top, maybe just imagine peak Fresh Prince with fire-engine red hair. I really have no way of doing this bird justice but I am just going to soldier on here; if you haven’t looked it up already, please be my guest. The ‘do is significant, but not half as much as the bird’s size. These giants are the size of newborns, I swear. They come in with their impossibly recognizable hollerin’ to land, as is the style of woodpeckers, parallel on a tree trunk. Unlike others though, Pileateds will make you put up your hands to measure and wonder, “That might really be as big as a baby.” Here I am, watching this enormous bird who for some reason has not stopped shouting, wondering if this is it: finally an opportunity to communicate with a dinosaur. This megafauna hops from one tree to another, staying in my, admittedly narrow, sight and calling out with some consistency. Am I being threatened, I wonder before laughing at myself. Indeed this bird could do serious damage but what the actual fuck would it want with me? Before long, my monstrous friend swoops off, its wingbeats stifled only by its yelling.

It is in moments like this, when I realize that my fears are actually predicated on complete unreality, that I can discern my own humanity from the animal my soul longs to be. Later in the evening I had to take care of some uterine twaddle (the lengths I am trying to go to not write “blood” y’all, smh) and wondered if I’d be attracting a bear. I triple bagged my garbage and sprayed the whole car with peppermint before I realized that the fear itself was based on what? An urban legend. Bears aren’t sharks! That didn’t stop me from leaving the top off the coffee can while I slept, but it did allow me to fall asleep peacefully as the crickets and frogs chattered.

There is a tree here who creaks and wails in the ways of fairytale witches. She leans in one direction and nearly squeals, another direction provokes deep whining. Her sway changes again and the nasally sound is lilting, almost singing. At first when I hear this I wonder about a bird, but that’s just the wild hope of a strange human who’d like to make a new friend. In the dark the tree could easily be called creepy, whispering and complaining to the apathetic night. I listen to the gusts that travel through the treetops, never even touching my tent, like waves high above my head. The trees lean and tilt, but only one or two make any fuss about it. I look to the deep blue sky, the trees silhouetted and stark, stars peeking through thei branches. I am a sea creature, way deep down in the calm below the surface. These massive fronds are my shelter, lilting in the current. I wonder if kelp creaks under the weight of waves.

In actually wet news, the creek beside which I’ve nested this evening is definitely some type of babbler. At one point in my near-slumber I imagine I hear people talking. I wake up listening intently to the flow of shallow water over smooth rocks. I recognize the weird change in pitch that has occurred. I cannot explain or really even illustrate the moments when a bustling waterway changes its tune, but it happens, and can be truly disconcerting. We like to think a non-living thing is constant–rocks and water aren’t really a conscious combo–but nothing on this earth is constant. My little brook has been chattering all day, but only in the depth of night do my senses awake to its conversation. I have been indoors a long time, and will need a moment before my forest senses return. In this way I find myself, wide awake long after tucking in to bed, delighted by my own annoyance with this guilelessly talkative stream.

A beloved friend recommended me the book The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, and I love it so far. I think it’s a fairly quick read overall, and I recommend it to anyone who needs a little burst of surreptitious wonder in their lives. I’m not going to give too much away but our sweet author is deeply afflicted by illness and finds some comfort in overhearing their snail’s nocturnal munching of a calm, lonely evening. My pantry happens to be directly under the head of my bed, which is helpful if there are unwelcome guests in the breadbox–they always go for the bread or oatmeal first. I sure did wish it was a snail when I awoke a couple hours before dawn to the sounds of nibbling. That sound, more effectively than any other, jolts me immediately from dead sleep to usefully alert. I don’t hesitate as I grab my headlamp and put it on maximum brightness, dangling it toward the floor from my bed in an effort to startle the smaller creature. Then, like the omnipotent giant that I am, I reach down to remove all the food from the floor. I am glad to see that only one bread bag has a half-inch nibble out of it, barely missing a few crumbs. I’d caught the little dude in the act, glad again to have the pantry so close to my hearing. Now, to smoke ’em out. This involves a lot of noisemaking in the predawn blue and I didn’t really enjoy it, but my univited visitor was finally evicted as the sky lightened, and the woods didn’t seem to mind. The first thing I did when I got up this morning was to bolster my security. I couldn’t find a weak spot, and so the possibility of a subsequent intruder is decent. But any fear I might have of encountering animals fades directly in relation to time spent in the woods.

As if I could ever consider myself “alone”.