Awkward Adventures in Trust

I almost said “no.”

I almost stayed back at the campground tucked in a sleeping bag, with a headlamp tight across my forehead, book opened.

I almost stayed warm and safe.

Sometimes joy can only be found squarely outside our comfort zone. It requires some level of risk.

Interpersonal neurobiology tells us that sometimes fight or flight lies and we can only pursue the unknown holding onto a secure hand of flesh and blood. When fight or flight is out of proportion, we can regulate our emotions to another trustworthy brain.

We can learn to pursue risk holding tight onto the hands of safe people.

Said another way, fight or flight can best be quieted while looking into the eyes of someone who promises to walk with us, who promises not to leave, a non-anxious presence. And as we experience their calming presence over a period of time, we begin to trust.

But here’s another truth of brain science, trust takes time to build. It can’t be forced. It’s built organically, one trustworthy experience after another.

Andrew and I have had 25+ years of building trust in the outdoors. He grew up setting trap lines before breakfast. I camped at a KOA once.

So, when it comes to the outdoors, my fear meter is off. I’ve learned to trust his brain more than mine. If it weren’t for this man, I would never venture far from sidewalks and libraries.

This particular evening we had promised the kids a dip at a hotspings close to Sheffield campground, our basecamp for exploring the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone.

And at this point you need to know two things:

1. Our campground required passage through Sheffield Creek to get to the campsites. No bridge.
2. The twelve horsemen of the apocalypse were heading our way in the form of a boiling black cloud.
3. Bears. Need I say more?

And maybe you need to know one more thing, I have a highly active imagination.

I wondered if we crossed over the creek after the storm if one, our minivan would be swept downstream. This seemed highly reasonable. Or two, we would have to sleep in the car on the other side of the creek from our tent. Five people crammed in a tight space. Two people over six feet. One who snores. A sure recipe for tomorrow’s discontent.

While I made up my mind of whether I’d attend said trek through the wilderness in a storm towards an unknown hotspring at dark, the guys pulled the guy lines tight on the rain fly on our tent and secured the stakes. Then, Andrew’s eyes twinkled as he held out his hand.

At that moment, I had a decision to make; I could stay tucked in with my book, or choose to surrender to the unknown.

I decided to use Andrew’s brain to regulate, and then, take his hand and choose the adventure.

We drove to the trail entrance and stayed in the minivan while the black cloud let loose, wind whipping through a burned out woods, trees swaying dramatically. Only a tiny peach line across the horizon signaled hope.

We waited.

“The storm will keep the riff raff out,” was my husband’s archetypal answer as I glanced nervously, rain pouring on the mini-van roof in heavy sheets.

Again, when fear threatens to send us into fight or flight, we can use another reasonable brain to bring us back into our window of tolerance. This time I used God’s and I heard a soft whisper, “This is an opportunity to practice surrender.” I took a deep breath and chose a new posture and a new breath prayer: Practice surrender.

Big fat drips still hit the windshield, though the wind had quieted, and Andrew gave the signal while everyone piled out. I pulled on my wide-brimmed oilskin hat. Others strapped on bearspray holsters.

In the dusk, the trail was unclear. We bushwacked through a scrubbrush field full of moose sign, and then waded through a stream much warmer than it should have been in the mountains of northwestern Wyoming. While the rain stopped, we began looking through the dusk for steam on the horizon.

Andrew surged ahead with our Brittany Spaniel who was hunting grasshoppers. In the distance we saw a line of steam. Hotspring found. We stripped off shoes and midlayers. Maddie and I pulled up our hair in elastics, and we slowly stepped in to the heat, then, ahhhhh, we sat down on the pebble bottom of the hot spring pool.

The pool, round and about ten feet across, had a low metallic smell and I thought of the Victorians “taking the waters” at various hot springs around the country as medicine, FDR included. I wondered what “medicine” filled this pool. We watched steam rise against the deepening dusk. I pulled out my hands. My rings sparkled as if they had just been professionally cleaned. The group alternated in chatter and silence, enjoying the warmth against the backdrop of the pine trees and birdsong.

“See what happens when you surrender to trust?” I heard. “Surrender can clear the way to joy.“

Even though we could see our breath as we talked, our body temperature had risen so much we didn’t feel cold as we stepped out of the pool. On the way back, Andrew waited and again, held out his hand. He and Caedmon had the only headlamps and it was dark enough for stars to make their appearance. Together we stumbled through a bog, sloshed across a creek, and watched our kids in front of us singing spoofs off popular songs octaves too high.

I told Andrew it had been better than Christmas morning.

I was so glad I had taken hold of his hand.