Best Women's Travel Writing 2010

With his long brown hair smoothed into a thick ponytail and secured with a piece of string, Eric is attractive, but what makes him even more so is that he brews his own beer and raises bees for honey. We met in biology class but have never formally hung out, maybe because there’s something equally odd about him; something I can’t quite place. Eric is a loner, and seems to prefer it that way. Still, he’s leaving for the East Coast in two days and I want to go with him.

He quietly sips his beer, contemplating my proposition. By now I’m visually consumed by images of the crashing Atlantic at sunset, lighthouses, large Victorian homes, doilies, silver teacups, and Castle Rock—the fictitious town depicted in many of Stephen King’s novels.

“Oh sure, that would be great,” I lie. I’ve never back-packed a day in my life. But maybe, besides Eric’s long lean arms and dark grin, that is part of the draw.

For the next two days I wonder what kind of relationship might develop between us. He’s asked me out a few times in the last year for a beer or to study, but nothing came to fruition and I never equated his asking with anything special.

“Are you bringing your own tent?” my friend Kate asks. “Or will you just snuggle up in his? What if he expects ‘payment’ for the ride back?” She laughs at her cleverness.

Any attraction I have to this humble mountain man dissipates by the time we hit third gear. When Eric said he doesn’t talk much, he should’ve clarified that he doesn’t talk at all. And without a working radio in his 1989 Malibu, we have an awkward—and silent—3,300 miles ahead. At first, the silence frightens me. I look over at Eric frequently and he just seems so at peace—so far away—while I’m fumbling with my overactive imagination through countless fallow fields. How can I get to where he is?

After poking around Bar Harbor, Maine, for a day, we hop on board the Cat, a monstrous catamaran with a belly big enough for 250 cars. It tops out at 55 mph and sets off a fifty-foot rooster tail. We careen across the ocean to the thick accented hillsides of Nova Scotia. Our destination is Kejimakujik National Park, where we will backpack along an eighty-kilometer loop that equates to roughly sixty-five miles. That’s sixty-five miles more backpacking than I’ve ever done in my life.

“You are in ‘bear country’ now,” the attendant at the visitor center warns, eyebrows raised. Growing up in Wisconsin, I never had to worry about bears unless they escaped from the zoo. Anxiety balls in my belly. Suddenly I am worried about whether or not I’ll be able to walk even five miles, overcome my childhood fear of the dark, deal with continued silence from my partner and, most of all, avoid being eaten.

Eric loses the rest of his charm when he announces that he’d rather backpack alone. “Nothing personal,” he says. “It’s the way I’ve always done things.”

At first, I love my surroundings. Though we’ve only been in the country for a day, Nova Scotia already seems so simple. Last night, I was stunned by the darkness enveloping us. Every light and every store seemed to blink out right along with the setting sun. Gone, gladly, was the twenty-four-hour convenience I’d grown accustomed to. Even the houses were simple, not huge and overpowering. Everything seemed to have a purpose, a reason for being.

As I walk along the trail, I try to revel in the beauty of everything. The trail’s undergrowth is a lush green, sensuous and ripe with smells. I am fully enjoying myself—until my back begins to twinge. I work at REI, an outdoor gear store—in the shoe department; they won’t let me near the camping section—and so was able to rent my gear for free. What I failed to learn, however, was how to fit it properly. All fifty pounds of my backpack are now hanging off my shoulders.

After a mile of torture, my throat tightens. I hate this! Then the sounds begin. The deep rustles and barely audible grunts. The bushes move just long enough for me to look in that direction before a sound erupts elsewhere. I feel eyes creeping over my body, violating, penetrating from behind every twig and stamen.

I decide to arm myself. I fashion a “bear bell” out of a rusted tin can and two rocks. I’ve read Backpacker Magazine; I know that if you don’t want anything in nature to get too close, you make noise. Lots of it.

After hobbling into our camp at Lake George hours later, I’m dismayed to find Eric writing in his journal next to the creek bed, a look of contentment on his face. Bastard! We cook beans and rice over an open flame and Eric watches me plant the blue tent in the dirt.

So far, we’ve been cordial if not quiet with one another. I’m not picking up any vibes, but still, this is it. Our sleeping bags and warm, sweaty bodies will soon be snuggled close. But then he packs up his foam pad, headlamp, and sleeping bag. “You might want to move that tent,” he says with a knowing smile as he heads toward the woods. “A bear can smell our dinner from a mile away.”

The next morning I wake up in the small tent, which I shoved into the underbrush at the side of our camp, a good fifty feet from our dinner.

I was at a party this time, lingering in the doorway, when I noticed her. She had long curly hair, blue eyes, and a tight shirt that accentuated every curve. She was sitting in an oversized ottoman chair, alone. In the dream I weaved my way toward her, through the mostly male crowd. She saw me coming. So good to see you, Laura, I’ve been thinking about you. She smiled—and that’s what did it. The only invitation I needed. I crawled on top of her, pushed my hands beneath that tight shirt, and pressed my tongue between her lips.

It’s the same dream over and over, and I don’t know why I have it. Or rather, why I like it. Closing my eyes, I immerse myself in the still-warm memory. I shouldn’t want those soft red lips and softer skin. I shouldn’t want a woman at all.

I lie back down on my greasy pillow. I never learned how to masturbate, but now feels like the time to start. I always told myself I didn’t need sex. I’ve never really enjoyed it with any of my five previous boyfriends. The recurring dream of the woman is the closest I’ve gotten to fulfillment in a long time.

Frustrated, I throw my feet out of my sleeping bag in one swift movement. Maybe I can like this Eric guy after all. He is kind of quiet, but he’s fit, intelligent, and there are moments when he doesn’t seem annoyed that I’m along.

I crawl out of the tent to see him scrambling enough eggs for two. I put on my best sexy camp face and smooth down my tangled hair. “Can I help with anything?” I ask, awkwardly letting my hand fall on Eric’s shoulder. We both flinch at this sudden contact. After too long, I feel him relax, barely. I sit down beside him on the tiny log he has found and try to think of something poetic or profound to share. Instead, a thick wad of hair falls in my mouth and when I blow it out, I catch a whiff of my own breath. Eric, who had been looking curiously at me, quickly turns away. Now what?

This is useless. I don’t feel it for Eric. We eat in silence. I envision more girl-on-girl fantasies while I wait for him to get ready. When he sees me fidgeting, he says, map in hand, “Go ahead. I’ll meet you tonight.”

Our next camp spot seems placed in another country, far on the other side of the park in a deep tangle of woods ripe with berries (and, I fear, things that like to eat them). We’ll be descending deeper into the park, farther away from humanity and emergency services and telephones. Always the tomboy and the stubborn little girl, I bite back my tears. What do I expect, for him to hold my hand? To be my prince? Instead, I hoist my ill-fitting backpack onto my aching shoulders and step away from the warmth of our campsite into the cold shadows of the trees.

I’ve been attracted to women all my adult life and most of my teenage years as well. About the same time girls my age were having make-out sessions with their boyfriends, I was barely letting boys touch me, equating their sloppy kisses to onion breath. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to boys in high school and beyond; I just didn’t experience that electrifying bolt some of my girlfriends generated.

I was elected to the prom court along with a gorgeous guy named Jonah. We went on a few dates and every time he dropped me off, I opened the door before the car even stopped and tore across the front lawn of my house. I knew I looked foolish and thought (hoped) he would never call again. But he always did. Every damn time.

On prom night, as midnight drew near, our friends shuttled us into an empty bedroom. As I fumbled for him in the darkness, drunk (the only way I could do it), Jonah grabbed my hand. The macho captain and pitcher of the baseball team suddenly seemed like a scared rabbit. He couldn’t kiss me, he whispered, shaking. He couldn’t have sex with me, and was so so sorry. “I think I’m, you know,” he whispered. “I think I like guys.”

After a moment of terrifying silence, we collapsed into laughter. We did spend the night together, mentally undressing our entire high school class and declaring our most-wanted lists. We only “dated” for another month, after which I developed the imaginary boyfriend tactic to deflect admirers, essentially making up a boyfriend that didn’t attend our school. “Nate” was my longest imaginary boyfriend; we dated for a year. That way, when guys would ask: “You have a boyfriend?” I could say yes as I watched another girl’s ass pass down the hall.

The second day in “Keji,” I walk sixteen miles. Alone. I finally figure out my backpack’s waist belt, which transfers the weight to my legs. After years of playing college soccer, they are my best assets.

We are nearly two days into this unfamiliar mini-jungle and I haven’t seen another soul except Eric. I desire human interaction to such a degree, it’s making me neurotic, desperate. “Take a picture of me!” I want to say around every bend. In front of the deep blue lake, by the boulders strung across the mirrored streams, atop the mossy undergrowth, beside the wildly phallic red and purple mushrooms lining the sides of the trail.

As I mope along, sulking in my loneliness, I kick up a real bell to attach to my makeshift bear bell. A little jangly silver ball that must have fallen off someone’s pack or bear alarm device. Either way, this new discovery deepens my desperation for companionship. I start thinking about my manager at REI, which is even more worrisome. Sure, I’ve had crushes on gorgeous women—Hollywood actresses, folk singers—but not on actual lesbians.

Julia has a mullet, chains her wallet to her pants. It’s not so much that I want to have sex with her, but I want to ask her how she does it, what makes her do it, is it worth it? And—does she have any friends?

I revel in the fact that I don’t appear gay, with my long hair and imaginary boyfriends. Eric keeps asking why I don’t have a boyfriend. A pretty girl like you. He knows of at least a few guys who asked me out during the last semester, and I shot down each one, unmercifully.

But in the same way that I’m terrified of those miles and miles of wilderness and secrets, of being eaten or tortured by wildlife, I’m even more terrified of being gay.

The second night, I have blisters on both feet and am so exhausted that when I find what I think is our campsite, I collapse and fall asleep. Eric finds me an hour later and laughs. Earlier in the day, we’d actually run into one another, purely by accident. Keji is a preeminent paddle-and-portage area, a haven for canoeists because of the abundance of lakes. At the edge of one of these pristine lakes, Eric and I met eye-to-eye, or rather, eye-to-ass. Eric was naked when I came upon him.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” I said, turning my head, ripe with red-faced shame. Here I was, a female flush with hormones and all of the essentials of baby-making, yet still I felt uncomfortable as I caught sight of Eric’s lean, muscular back and firm butt. I felt as if I’d just come across my brother.

“Huh? Oh, hey.” Eric was facing the lake, the sun making him squint before he waded in quickly, sucking in his breath. “You coming?” he yelled before disappearing in a fleshy blur.

I watched him paddle out to a huge, smooth rock and haul himself onto its surface. Watching him out there, I got annoyed, then angry. Annoyed that I was too afraid, shy, self-conscious—whatever—to follow him. I have a good body, an athlete’s body. Still, the thought of hauling myself onto that rock in front of him, of being exposed, was too much. Eric stretched out in the sun and was so comfortable, so nonchalant, that I grew angry. Not at him, directly, but at life. He knew he’d marry a woman—would be able to marry a woman—wouldn’t be labeled with derogatory statements; wouldn’t have to come out to his parents and disappoint them with zero grandchildren.

Travel mates for a week now, I still know very little about this quiet man. But one night he opens up. After we get a thick fire roaring, he pulls out a healthy-sized flask of whiskey and I wash most of my cares away as he tells me about his girl, Mari, back in Madison, Wisconsin. He misses her more than he thought he would, and now he hopes to get centered for the task at hand: proposing to her. I’m not surprised by this confession. Nothing could surprise me at the moment. My city skin is slowly sloughing off, and a deeper epidermal layer is emerging, fresh and curious and unscarred.

After that night, there are many good moments with Eric, sweet moments like when he brews me his special tea; like when he confesses that I am the first person he’s ever been backpacking with; like when he seems to genuinely appreciate my company. But his faraway look has more to do with dreams than dissonance, and his obvious love for his girl makes me feel more alone than ever.

On our last morning, I wake up with my hand down the front of my long underwear. I haven’t consciously been masturbating, or even trying to masturbate, but suddenly I realize my fingertips are wet. Even as I contemplate this, I feel my hand move down, through the forest of pubic hair to rest faintly on the warmth emanating from that region. On the brink of that foggy dream world, I imagine Julia rolling over next to me, nuzzling into my neck, saying good morning sweetheart, pushing her own hand deeper down. I moan a little, a tingling eruption pulling every neuron awake.

“Pancakes or oatmeal?” Eric asks through the blue film. I’m grateful I put the rain fly on the night before, or he would’ve seen more than dewy leaves. Who knows how long he’s been standing there. Yet my tough new skin doesn’t seem to care about exposure. With his daily absences and frequent silences, Eric has given me a gift I’ve both coveted and feared. After packing up, I brush past him and hike straight out of camp.

I’m walking at a good clip, swinging the bell loudly, humming a made-up song, when suddenly the twigs start breaking. I stop in my tracks and grip the bell to quiet it. I can’t tell where the movement is coming from. Adrenaline surges through my body, pricking my heartbeat and inducing a small wave of nausea. I swallow the lump in my throat. Up ahead, I see movement, something dark and swinging. This is it! A bear! Come and get me motherfucker! I push back into the thick growth at the side of the trail.

A painfully slow minute ticks by, then I see the cause of my fear: two people walking down the trail toward me. As if sensing my need, the forest clutters around me. My backpack disappears at my feet under the thick groundcover of leaves. But in that split second, something happens. The breeze feels good; the sun feels warm. Simple. I realize I could keep hiking forever, as long as I didn’t have to hike back.

I throw my bear bell off into the distance, the tin can shattering into rust and dust. I still fear being gay, still fear my first sexual encounter with a woman. Yet I have released those fears just enough. Waves of desire and submission roll over me. Moving far off the trail, I sit on a mossy rock beside a glorious white and yellow mushroom and close my eyes. For the first time in my life, I pray for everything to come to me.

After bidding Eric a fond farewell, I wait along the Atlantic shore for a friend from Boston to pick me up. Eric’s obvious love for his girl back home breaks my heart a little. Breaks the ideology I’ve grown up with. I want to be with a woman, and even more, I want to be that giddy human belting out love songs into the wind.

I end up in Boston a few hours later. I tell my friend that I just can’t sleep inside, not now. I don’t want the city’s skin to muck everything up again. I pitch my tent in her backyard and dream of Julia, or someone like her, under the competing glares of Fenway Park and the full, lovely face of the moon.

Laura Katers lives in Denver, Colorado, and is a freelance writer for several magazines and journals, and a contributing editor for Matter Journal. She recently spent several years teaching environmental education and nature writing in Australia, New Zealand, and California, as well as leading backpacking trips in Colorado and Alaska. A frequent contributor to various publications and causes focused on sustainability, bike culture, sexuality and diversity, she has published essays in More Sand in My Bra, Going Green: True Tales from Gleaners, Scavengers, and Dumpster Divers, and The Best Travel Writing 2008, among others.