Nowhere to Hide

Fear.  We run from it … do anything not to feel it, yet it’s hard-wired into our bodies.  But after the initial, unavoidable rush of adrenaline, do we have to be a prisoner to fear?  I say no.  This I learned quite personally in the past 24 hours.

Not yet half-way through my speaking tour around the U.S., we are taking a break in Sequoia National Park.  Ty’s daughter Elisabeth joined us last week so that she and her dad could do a couple of overnight backpacking trips into the deep wilderness.  My role was to care for Rudy and Gretchen, our two long-haired dachshunds, back at the campground in our RV.  It was a tough job, but somebody had to keep them warm in the king-sized bed while Ty and Liz slept on the cold, hard ground.

I hiked with them for the first hour of their trek.  My complaints about their slow pace did not seem to be appreciated.  Perhaps it was the fact that I was only carrying an eight-pound day-pack compared to their heavy overnighters.  Whatever the case, after sharing lunch along the trail, we said our farewells, and I hiked back to the campground.


Completely off the grid (with no cell phone or Internet signal) for the first time in over a year, I decided to do no work at all and simply relax.  I spent two delightful hours in a hammock, enjoying “Angels in the Wilderness,” a fabulous book I picked up at the visitor center about author Amy Racina’s harrowing brush with death after a 60-foot fall in the very park where we are.  My emotional reaction to Amy’s rescue surprised me as I openly wept, tears running down my face as I swung in my hammock.  I realized that my emotions came from my soul’s recognition of the Divine at work in her rescue.  The accumulation of miracles that made up Amy’s story could only be explained by the fact that it was not yet Amy’s time to go.

After dinner I drove the short distance to a grove of giant sequoia trees I had visited the day before with Ty and Liz.  I found the forest magical, the trees very much alive and wise.  One stand of trees in particular had called to me, and I savored the thought of meditating in their midst.  My plan to wait until dusk to be able to sit in solitude paid off.   I did not encounter a single other hiker on the two mile trail.  I used my camera’s self-timer to capture what to me was a sacred half-hour spent soaking up the tangible energy of these gentle giants.














Perhaps because I slept alone that night I had a bad dream that left me shaken when I awoke.  In the nightmare I found myself lost in city streets.  I had wandered into a gang’s territory, and men carrying giant machine guns came at me from every corner.  I could hear gunshots, and my fear was palpable as one after another pointed his gun directly at me and threatened my life.  I was so disturbed that I had to clear my chakras as part of my morning meditation.  Little did I know that fear would be the theme of the day.

I love the outdoors as much as Ty does, so after lunch I decided to go for a three hour hike on a trail that started at our campground.  The pine bed path led uphill alongside a rushing river through lush forest.  Still early in the season, I passed few other hikers.  Halfway to the destination of a waterfall at the top of the trail, a young couple stopped to warn me of a bear ahead.  They said I would know where it was by the small crowd of hikers snapping photos. 

Sure enough, less than a hundred yards ahead I saw the photographers and followed the direction their lenses were pointing.  The large cinnamon colored bear’s motion through the woods immediately caught my attention.  Seconds later I saw another flash of movement ahead of the larger bear.  When I saw two small cubs scurrying along a log I sucked in my breath.  I know to respect a bear in the wild, but I also know they will not usually bother a human.  A mama bear protecting her cubs, however, is a different story.

Suddenly, the bear turned to her left and began walking directly towards me.  Adrenaline rushed to my heart and I cursed.  Having read many advisories about bear encounters, I knew not to run.  With Mama Bear no more than thirty feet from me now, I pulled my canister of bear repellant spray from the side pocket of my daypack.  Just the day before I had received an email from friends Mike and Beth Pasakarnis with a cartoon about bears eating humans and a warning to “be careful out there.”  I raised my arms over my head to make myself look bigger as I thought about the ironic timing of their prophetic email.  This was the closest I had ever come to a bear in the wild.

Happily, Mama seemed more interested in the termites in a nearby downed tree than in me, and she veered off the trail with her cubs scampering closely behind.  I speed-walked past her and joined the perceived safety of the half dozen other hikers eagerly snapping photos.  From my vantage point now fifty feet on the other side of the bears I relaxed a bit and enjoyed the antics of the cubs.  They put on a great show, climbing nimbly up and back down a tree trunk, then wrestling with each other on the trail.  One of them stood on his back legs then practiced dancing as if putting on a show for us.

When the bears finally sauntered off, I continued on the trail.  Along with the giant sequoias, waterfalls are my favorite thing in nature.  Just as I snapped a photo of a marmot enjoying the cascade with me, the rumble of thunder interrupted the peace.  I looked behind me and saw that the sky had filled with ominous gray clouds headed my way.  As the grumbling continued, it became clear that the thunderheads were going to pass directly overhead.

Just like Mike and Beth’s email, the timing of being caught in a thunderstorm struck me as ironic.  It was nine years ago this weekend that my step-daughter Susan was killed by a bolt of lightning.  Ever since her death, the sound of thunder causes the same rush of adrenaline as I had experienced upon seeing the bear.  It’s not that I am afraid of dying.  Knowing what I know from my work as a medium (an ability that I discovered only after Susan’s passing), I look forward to the next chapter in my existence.  What I do not savor is the thought of Ty going through the intense pain of loss a second time.

I recalled passing a small cave a few yards back, and scurried downhill to its entrance.  I crouched in the opening, listening to the thunder and watching the clouds hover ominously.   I was determined to stay in place until at least five minutes after the last grumble of thunder, no matter how long it took.  I took a few breaths and checked in with my Team above.  “It is not your time,” came the familiar message I had recently been pondering.  “You still have work to do.”  I found the words comforting, but I didn’t know if I could trust them.  Thoughts heard when in a state of fear can be falsely perceived.

A family of five clambered by my hidey-hole.  I had passed them earlier and noted with respect that the young father was hiking on an artificial leg.  He paused, and I used the opportunity to ask him how he had lost his leg.  As I suspected, he had served in the Iraq war.  I thanked him for his sacrifice, and he thanked me for caring enough to thank him.  When I learned that he had been a Marine, I became unexpectedly emotional for the second time in two days.  I choked up as I shared that our daughter had been a Marine when she was killed.  When I told him how Susan had passed, I gave a gentle warning to take the grumbling thunder seriously.  At this, the wounded warrior politely confirmed a thought I had entertained when I sought refuge under the rocks:   The mouth of a cave is a dangerous place to be in an electrical storm.

I considered my predicament.  To stay under the rocks was risky.  Standing out in the open was no better.  Susan had been struck crossing the exposed flight line on her way to the hangar where she was stationed.  Hiding under a tree also offered no safety.  I had written a book about Mike and Beth’s son, Wolf, who was struck and killed by lightning while sitting under a tree.  I shook my head.  There was nowhere to hide.

I climbed out from under the rocks and began my descent down the trail.  The grumbles of thunder grew into loud cracks and I tensed, filled with the same fear I had experienced during every thunderstorm since Susan passed.  It was the same fear I had felt in the nightmare when the guns were pointed at my head.  Suddenly, my head filled with the words I had heard when communicating with the soul of a woman in a coma.  “They can pull the plug,” she told me.  “If it’s my time, I’ll go; if it’s not, I’ll stay.”  These sentiments confirmed the messages I have heard in hundreds of readings from many of the souls of those who died young:  Their deaths may have seemed untimely to those left behind, but for reasons we may only learn when we pass, it was their time.

I realized then that I had a choice.  I could run down the trail propelled by fear, or trust the wisdom my guides Sanaya had shared with me repeatedly over the past four years:  that all is in perfect order … always.  It was Sanaya who gave me the mantra, “I AM free.”  I could remain a prisoner to the human fears that had plagued me since Susan’s death, or choose differently and find freedom.  Certainly, if there had been a shelter on the trail, I would have stepped inside.  With nowhere to hide, I saw the futility in being afraid, and I chose peace. 

I walked two miles through the rain back to the trailhead.  Mama Bear and her cubs must have found a place to stay dry, for they were nowhere in sight.  Like the gunshots in my dream, the thunder cracked for the duration of the hike, and I felt nothing but gratitude.  I had started out alone with baggage I’d been carrying around for nine years.  I finished with a lighter step and peace as my companion.