I got up really early Friday so I could complete the five-and-a-half-hour drive to Bitely, Michigan, and get a good campsite. Only nine at Highbank Lake and I planned the weekend’s hike around this campground. I have learned that my plan doesn’t matter to anyone else; campgrounds fill up fast in July. I was lucky and got an amazing spot on the end of the tiny lake with only one neighboring site, already occupied by a man and his dog, and they didn’t seem to want to chat. Score! I pitched my tent under two tall maples about twenty feet from the water. There was clear visual and physical access to the lake with lily pads on either side and a great view of the trees just across the water. I angled my tent to maximize my view. If I was lucky, I might even catch the sunset.

As I pitched my tent, I considered leaving the rainfly off. The stars burn so brightly here, maybe because there isn’t much light pollution. It would be beautiful to fall asleep watching the sky. The idea thrilled me AND made me uneasy. Without the rainfly, the bugs stay out, but rain could get in. I didn’t have a signal to check the weather. I didn’t think it was supposed to rain, but it would be awful to have to put the rainfly on in the middle of the night in the rain. The temperature was supposed to drop to the low 50s. These are the things I told myself. The truth? I was scared. I was scared to see what was outside the tent and for what was outside the tent to see me. I dreaded those sounds that woke me deep in the night and flooded me with terror.

“Outside the tent is Nature,” I informed myself. I was ridiculously surprised by this fact. I grew up tent camping. Nothing leaves me more revitalized than a few nights in a tent, zipped up tight. This is how I settled in to read a book about meditation that my friend Bob gave me a year ago. I was wearing a hiking headlamp so I could see as I lay on my sleeping bag; horizontal is the only option in my little tent. I added this visual to the pro column for leaving the tent zipped. I looked like a geek.

I started to doze off and tucked the book safely away. As I snuggled in, a little voice insisted, “Open the flaps! You set the tent up so carefully only to hide from Nature? OPEN the flaps!” So I did.

The night was magical. Fish jumped all night. Bullfrogs croaked and loon sang their soulful song. The pond vibrated with twangs, tweets and an occasional gurgle. The sounds were not individual or identifiable, at least to my sleepy brain. Even the wind sounds were richer without the canvas between us. Any time I wanted to, I could look up and see the stars so big and white in the moonless sky. One of the dippers was featured, framed by the branches just over the treetops. I wasn’t scared. Firefly morse code reminded me that it was all Nature. Nighttime Nature. Later I woke to racket around the dumpster. It was so loud I was sure it was a bear. I still wasn’t scared. I decided someone else could worry about the bear and fell right back asleep. I realize that a lifetime of cocooning in a tent didn’t provide a safe haven but rather a cage where fear festered. What we can’t see, we can’t know, and the unknown is scary.

The next morning on my way to the trail, I passed a man and his sons near the dumpster. I asked if they had heard the banging and echoing the night before. The dad laughed and said it was probably a raccoon as his son threw a white plastic bag in the container with a thud. The son said, “Hey, there’s a raccoon in here now!” We thought he was kidding, but he wasn’t. I looked at the young raccoon cowering in the back corner of the dumpster. It wasn’t a bear that woke me up, it was this adorable little guy, and he was terrified.

I wondered what the raccoon was thinking. I didn’t know if he was in there on purpose. I didn’t know if he SHOULD be afraid of humans. Probably. There was a lot I didn’t know, but I could still relate to him. There are all kinds of cages, most of them we can easily free ourselves from. I’ll continue to sleep with my tent flaps open. I hope my raccoon friend finds the way out of his cage too.