“Bernie! Get up here, bud,” I say to my dog, patting the cloth bench seat.
He climbs into the front seat, panting and grinning. This has been our ritual from the time he was an egg-headed puppy. My boyfriend, C, would be at the wheel, me in the front passenger seat. As soon as the truck started to slow down, approaching whatever destination was on the docket that weekend, Bernie would leap into my lap. I’d try and wrangle him as he slinked clumsily across my legs, big paws disproportionate as ever, craning his neck out the window and sniffing.
Now I’m at the wheel, borrowing my boyfriend’s truck for the weekend. Bernie’s full-grown at 80lbs but he still thinks he’s small enough to lean against me as I’m driving. I say “excuse me!” to him, a command he knows means I need space, until he gets the message. Bernie shifts over on the bench and sticks his head out the window.
We’re in a burly GMC Sierra, and Bernie jolts forward a bit, well-muscled legs counterbalancing, as we roll over a cattle guard. A wooden sign hangs above us from metal chains: “18 miles to Canyonlands. Dispersed camping allowed.”
It’s just the two of us this weekend. I begged C to join us in the desert for a couple days, but he’d rather stay in Salt Lake City for the spring storm that’s coming. If there’s ever even a whisper of powder in the forecast, it’s understood that he’ll be heading into the backcountry. Alone. No friends on powder days, and apparently no girlfriends either.
I don’t fight him on that anymore. I used to get real upset about it. Now we have a system. He placates me with the truck, and Bernie and I get 4-wheel drive and a contained space to sleep. I can lock the cap from the outside, climb into the cap’s side window, then use pliers to clamp the window latch shut. I even have a baseball bat and BB gun for safe measure.
My irrational fears have been taking over lately and I’ve been having trouble sleeping in tents. I want to lock something. I don’t know why I’m so scared; I didn’t used to be like this.
As I drive further down the dirt road, I swat the irrational fears away. This time in nature with Bernie is my medicine. Utah’s wide open land brings me stability and direction. After growing up in forested and highly-populated New England, this desolate landscape is the ultimate escape. The ultimate sanctuary. Even when life feels too confusing to dissect. Things are simple here.
The sun is perfectly warm and low on this textbook desert spring afternoon. I’ve driven about 5 miles or so down the BLM road Bernie and I are on. I’ve passed teardrop campers and RVs, semi-circle loops through junipers and slickrock enclaves. I haven’t found that spot with that special something. I’m looking for a campsite that’s down a side road a ways, but still near a group of people, preferably a family. Knowing that my neighbors are playing cornhole or roasting marshmallows allows me to settle into my night. Lets my eyes adjust to the campfire without constantly turning my headlamp on, then off. I can stay outside and enjoy the shooting stars a little longer.
I’m slightly ashamed by the fact that I’m looking for company when really all I want is solitude. To hear the crickets when the night cools everything down, and let my camp chair cradle my skull as I lean my head back and get a serendipitously-timed meteor. To let nature hold me the way I wish I could hold myself.
The sky is getting closer to dusk, and I see some orange reflective cones on my left. There’s a large RV with string lights and a group of about 15 people or so. I crank the steering wheel aggressively to compensate for the truck’s extra-wide axle. It’s like I’m wrangling a beast.
I come to a stop and shift into 4-wheel drive. Bernie’s sniffing with excitement, then looking at me and whining, then sniffing. I tell him we’re almost there.
We drive past the group campsite and continue down a sandy 4x4 road. I let the high-traction tires slowly crawl up and over a prominent bump, a steep and abrupt shift in the land. I angle the steering wheel to the right, giving the truck the ability to softly drop down at an angle. I’m not used to trusting high clearance.
After one or two more maneuvers that make me feel giddy and prideful, I spot an open site on my right. It’s tucked in the junipers, and decorated with sagebrush and prickly pear with withered blooms and plants that I don’t know the names of. I’m not ready to settle on this spot, though. I mean, I’ve got to take advantage of my 4-wheel drive. I want to see how far I can go before sunset.
So I continue on. I ask Bernie if he’s having fun and he gives me a shit-eating grin. We crawl our way back, further, further. I haven’t seen anyone for a while. I don’t know where this road goes. And then, I think, I also don’t know who’s out here.
By the time Bernie and I are on our next slickrock and sand hill, I’m feeling the fear. I’m hearing the voice that’s telling me I’m better off at the juniper site next to the family. Before I know it, I’m listening to it. I’m losing a small battle, a road to myself. I’m following the orders and a part of me is screaming to disobey, but I don’t know how to trust her anymore.
I feel something looming, but it’s easier to be afraid of what’s in front of me than to dig into the truth. My nervous system is a frayed live wire twisting of its own volition. And I think it’s because C and I have had more come-aparts than I can count on one hand.
Almost annually, we have our blowout fight about the lack of quality time, the lack of commitment, the lack of equality in house chores or grocery buying or dog walking. I yell so hard my throat hurts. He shuts down and leaves. He used to be the first to apologize, but he got sick of doing that. I can’t blame him. It takes two. But then we come together, seemingly better than before.
I know what the solution is, but I’m not ready to admit that to myself quite yet. There is, however, a clear answer to the hill I’m on. Turn around. Go to the safe spot.
I’ll take whatever illusion I can get.
I put it in reverse and slowly back off the hill, promising myself I’ll come back for it someday. That I’ll walk the road with Bernie during daylight and see where it goes. Maybe we’ll camp there tomorrow night once we’re comfortable. I feel hopeful about that. It’s enough to quell my shame and let me carry on with my night at my juniper copout. It’s not about proving anything, I think to myself. It’s about being out here.
I’m still riding that high as I maneuver the truck into the spot, moving forward, reversing, repeating, until I find that place where the tires sit just right and the truck feels level. I go to open the door, and before my hand is on the handle, Bernie’s paws are on my thighs and his floppy ears are perked. He tilts his head and stares at the handle, waiting for me to open the door. I give the boy what he wants. He jumps over me without so much as a bump, his lithe frame moving athletically. Confidently. Before I step down out of the truck, I open the passenger side door from within. The outer handle is busted. There’s nothing more irritating to me than forgetting, pulling on the handle, and realizing it doesn’t work. Maybe it pisses me off a little extra that C is a mechanical engineer yet doesn’t take the time to fix his goddamn door handle. The one that I use.
But I get ahead of it. The door is open, vibes are good. I lift the truck cap and open the tailgate. Three bundles of wood that I bought at the gas station in Price sit within arm’s reach. The sky is turning pink now, so getting the fire started is my priority. I can hear the family from across the way. Far enough it’s still private, close enough it’s comforting.
There’s nothing I love more than getting a fire started. The satisfaction of hunting for twigs and dead grass, peeling splinters from the wood-bundle logs. Building my pile of dry, dead, spindly things and resting the two thinnest logs from the bundles next to it. One touching the pile, one propped over it. I set the lighter to the grass. I watch as it smokes, smolders. The flame exhales as it ripples into existence, lapping at the dead stuff. Blackening first just a point of the perfectly blonde pieces of wood, the pinkish grain glowing, then catching. I give it time to gain momentum, to breathe in the oxygen. I’m patient with it. Once it’s really going, I add some more logs, building on the cabin structure of the two that are now fully inflamed.
Bernie’s exploring the grounds, and I trust that he’ll stay close. He’s too loyal to go far. I love that about him; I never have to worry. I can get the fire started, cook dinner, get the sleeping pads inflated, all without stressing about where he is or what he’s doing. It’s good for him to be out here like this, and there’s a deep trust between the two of us. We try not to push each other. I look over just in time to watch him pounce over a prickly pear, back paw landing on a pricker. I wince. He continues frolicking and I make a mental note to pull the pricker out once he comes back for dinner.
Then I hear it. The booming bark. Bernie’s deepest, bass bark splits the still air, cracking at the top with something piercing and threatening. I see him bounding towards me, eyes set on the road. I turn from my dinner duty on the Coleman and see an older couple walking down the 4x4 road. Holding hands. Watching the sunset. Enjoying each other’s company.
I doubt she begged him to be here.
Bernie’s hackles are up. He’s hopping around our site with each warning bark, creating a perimeter that he’s now guarding. I’ve never really seen him in action, and even though I trust him, it’s hard not to be intimidated by the sight of him. The flying saliva. The way he looks 10 times his normal size, neck fully outstretched. And I know him. These people, who are clearly a couple of innocents, must be freaked out.
I call Bernie off, I tell him thank you but that it’s okay. I’ve got it handled. His barks subside to deep growls. I shout my apologies over his growls at the couple, wave and give a friendly smile. The man laughs and says Bernie is doing his job. Being a good boy and protecting his mama. I laugh and pull Bernie’s head into the side of my leg. His body is still tense but he lets me squish his cheeks, let’s his head lean in as he gives a couple more half-hearted huffs and puffs.
Once the couple walks off, I get back to preparing the final touches at our site. I lay out my sleeping bag, pillow, and book in the truck bed, so they’re ready once I go to bed. I strap my headlamp on. I place my toothpaste and toothbrush on the tailgate. And now it’s time to plop in my camp chair by the fire, eat my mac and cheese while Bernie eats his kibble, and listen to music under the stars. I don’t keep track of time when we’re out here like this. I press the buttons on my bluetooth speaker when I want to change a song, negating any need to interface with my phone. We barely have service out here anyway. There’s something nice about not having the option to receive messages.
It makes it easier to not receive them. Especially when I wish they’d come.
Loneliness is transformed into solitude. A transgression morphs into an intentional choice. And in this place, I make my peace. I find my way back to the stars, and glimmers of myself.
Bernie and I exist in this way for who knows how long. Once the air gets that bone-chill, and Bernie has been laying in the same spot for what seems like an hour, I know it’s time for bed. I tell him “up up” and walk toward the tailgate. I don’t need to tell him what to do next. He jumps in the truck bed and the whole vehicle rocks a bit. I close the tailgate, then the cap, and I take the keys out of my pocket and jangle them til I find the little one responsible for keeping me safe. I lock the cap, make my way to the back right tire. I step onto the tire, giving myself a lift so I can more easily grab the top of the cap as I move feet first into the truck bed through a side window. Once I’m in, I close the window and lock the clamp.
Bernie’s already curled up on top of his sleeping bag, and I wrap another blanket around him. I pull him in for a cuddle, and he lets me. I can’t imagine this furball is the same one that was threatening our neighbors, hackles raised. I’m grateful that with Bernie, it’s all true.
Tomorrow we’ll explore a ten mile stretch along a river. It’ll take us into a canyon and end with a waterfall and a swimming hole. A big adventure to fill our day. The desert sun will burn away any remaining irrational fears, and so will Bernie.
When we’re together, nothing scares us. Especially when we’re out of service. Especially when we’re far from home.
