After the shuttle dropped us off, Moisie River 2011

You know that feeling at the very beginning of a wilderness trip? When you’ve reached your trail head or put in, unloaded all of your gear, and watched the shuttle drive away—when it sinks in that you’re really on your own, with the mosquitoes and the trees and the mountains? When you realize that the people in your group are the ones that you’re stuck with for however long the expedition lasts, whether you like it or not?

I love wilderness expeditions—I’ve been leading them for my entire adult life—but this feeling always scares me. It’s the feeling that, no matter how careful your planning has been, no matter how many times you double, triple, quadruple-checked your gear, no matter how thoughtfully you planned your itinerary—there are so many things you have no control over, and help is a long way away.

Two weeks ago, I woke up to the news that the school where I work was closed because of the Coronavirus. I lay in bed and scrolled through Instagram and Twitter, anxiety blooming in my chest as post after post echoed the same sentiments—stay at home. People are dying. Don’t put each other at risk.

All of a sudden, what felt far away the day before was now on my front porch. I felt like I had been dropped into a new reality that I had no control over. Even lying in bed next to my partner, I felt scared, lost—and alone.

It wasn’t until yesterday, running through my empty neighborhood on my daily *maintain sanity* run, that I was able to place what I was feeling two weeks ago, and what I’ve been feeling since.

After being dropped off by the Tischu River in the Yukon Territory, 2012

It’s the same feeling I have at the beginning of a wilderness trip when the shuttle pulls away—but this time, it’s different. Usually, the feeling fades as I remember that I know what I’m doing and fall into the joyful rhythms of life on trail. This time, the scary feeling hasn’t passed—and it’s because the whole country is on a poorly-planned wilderness expedition together. We have no idea where we are going or how long we’re out here for, and help feels a long way away. The risk management team in charge of this trip was fired, and the trip director sucks at his job—even to the point of denying that the trip is happening at all.

But here we are, all of us trying to get through this scary Coronavirus expedition together.

Shuttle to the Tischu River, Yukon Territory 2012

Like on a wilderness trip, we’re cooking all of our meals, wearing basically the same outfit every day, barely showering, and obsessing over toilet paper. For some of us, this expedition is easier—we have the right gear, our cook group is awesome, and we’re in good health.

For others, this expedition is really hard. We don’t have what we need, we’re stuck with people who aren’t safe for us, or our role is much riskier. Like on a wilderness trip, those of us who have it easier need to check in with those who are struggling. We need to share resources—only jerks hoard essentials like GORP, gummy bears, and first aid kits on an expedition. We need to look out for each other—and ourselves—so we can make it to the end together, as best we can. We need to be brave and ask for help when we need it. Don’t be like me, that time on a canoe trip when I rolled my ankle and kept portaging, just to go on and roll the other ankle, rendering myself useless. Do be like my 83-year-old dad, who shared with his kids yesterday that he’s scared—now we know to reach out and connect with him to try and make this time just a little bit easier.

Float plane dropping us off at Duo Lakes, Yukon Territory for a trip down the Snake River, 2017

We already know that this expedition is going to be hard, and I’m scared for what’s to come. I’m very lucky—I’m quarantined with my excellent partner, I still have a job and a paycheck, and I’m able to get outside to go for a run every morning.

And yet, I’m still struggling. I’m an antsy, anxious, extroverted outdoorsperson who’s stuck in her house for an unknown length of time. I’m worried for my family, my community, strangers down the block, and myself. I’m scared that we won’t all make it through this journey.

Today it’s March 31st, and we’ve reached the point of no return—the shuttle is long gone, and we’re stuck here with the moss, the alders, and the black flies—and I’ve been thinking about whether any good can come from all of us being on this trip together.

One of the things I love about wilderness expeditions is that they bring out the best and worst in us—our selfishness and our impatience, but also our creativity and strength. This Coronavirus expedition has certainly brought out the best in my community—from healthcare professionals working overtime to help sick people to community organizers fighting to protect marginalized communities to chefs feeding out-of-school kids.

It’s also highlighting some of our country’s greatest weaknesses, like massive systemic inequities in wealth, education, resource distribution and health care access.

Maybe at the end of this trip, there will be a moment when we confront those weaknesses and adopt long-term policies that care for all of our community members. Maybe, we’ll reflect on who we are, and choose to be better.

Want to help? Consider donating to these organizations:

Join Hallie this summer for these TVOP Adventures:
June 19-21, 2020 - Queer Canoe Camping Weekend
July 11-12, 2020 - Summit & Base Camping Mount Cardigan
July 17-19, 2020 - Womxn’s Canoe Camping Weekend

The Coronavirus Expedition