The Forest Bath

Her body stiffens in the single bed in her campervan. There was a noise. Loud enough to pull her from the lull before sleep. She never should have parked here. She knew it. She ignored the gut feelings. Those pesky feelings that are often wrong, merely her anxious thoughts working their way through her nervous system. Her thoughts that've been shaped by a lifetime of watching true crime documentaries and horror movies.

Her fingers tremble on the blinds. Should she open them? Look outside and see what is making that sound? Maybe it’s just a deer? Its horns scraping against the white paint of the van?

Last summer, she sat at a campfire alone in the Rockies. The night was dark. Sounds of movement in the surrounding forest had startled her. A true fight or flight response ensued. She shone her flashlight into the woods, sure she’d see a predator. But only 4 tan legs were revealed, an ungulate feasting on grass and leaves.

But maybe it’s a bear. The inch-long claws threatening to rip a car door off. Break through a window. One of those fed bears, that maul garbage cans and crash town sites searching for rotten kitchen scraps.

The van rocks to one side. Something is pushing it.

She grips the mattress. Her nails bent painfully into the fabric.

She waits. She doesn’t breathe.

She listens . . .

Gravel crunches outside. Something is circling the van. If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have parked with the front of the camper facing the road. A quick getaway. Like she usually did. But she lost count of all the miles. Navigating potholes, accidentlly hitting some of them, apologizing to the camper, like it was a sentient being. The roads had been treacherous.

Skinwalkers enter her mind. Bigfoot. First Nation’s folklore that’s seeped into popular culture. Whatever you do, don’t whistle.

No. She can’t let paranormal beings become part of the options for what’s outside. The things that are documented and widely accepted by the scientific community are enough.

Quietly sipping air, she wonders how long she can take in so little oxygen. How long she can lay, stiff like rigor mortis. How long can she listen. Waiting for the terrifying moment she must save herself.

The blinds by her pillow are a hazy hue of light. It’s daybreak. She must have fallen asleep. Flipping over on her stomach, she shoves the blinds open under the safety of morning, peering out for answers.

Leaves and branches blow gently in the morning breeze. It’s too hard to tell from up here through the tiny slot window by her bed. She climbs down the flimsy ladder to the kitchen area in her van. Pulling the silver reflective window coverings off still feels too exposing. It’s cold in the mornings now.

Underwear, yoga pants, and a sweater are thrown on haphazardly. Her urgency to get out of here. To make this a thing she can look back on and laugh. Or wonder. But most importantly, to make it an event of the past and not of the present.

She hops over the garbage can in the middle of the cabin, jumping into the drivers seat. She does this to avoid going outside. She plugs in her back up camera to the cigarette lighter. She will need it to back out quickly, without hesitation.

She takes a deep breath before ripping the window coverings down, throwing them into the passenger footrest area.

There’s nothing there. No broken tree limbs to suggest a sasquatch. No blood smeared on the windshield. No claw marks. No tufts of fur left behind. What was she expecting? She expected the worst. As always.

She needs to stop falling asleep to podcasts about brutal unsolved murders. She's doing this to herself. A New Age sentiment that declares you attract what you think about. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

Unused adrenaline feels like an overdose of stimulants. This makes her tired. But staying another minute is not an option.

It’s time to get the fuck out of here.

Pushing the gear into reverse, the back up camera screen turns on. She hits the gas. Ready to get back to the safety of the road. Her eyes flit to the camera.

Instincts kick in.

She hits the brakes.

Is there really a choice? After all, she's not the murdering type.

Because there it is. The answer.

He smiles at the camera.