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106 pages, Paperback
Published September 23, 2025
Fear of Drowning
My first week in the Pisgah Forest, the rain does not
give up. August deluge. All the rivers rising, seductive
as a high hemline. One woman, before crossing, looks
back at me, says: This is for my kids. Then she steps
into the current, hip belt unbuckled in case she stumbles.
In case the pressure pulls her and her backpack down.
When I began working wilderness therapy, my father
sent me his AA story, the former life I don’t remember:
all the Saturday mornings he drove us drunk, three daughters
in the backseat. Our small hands sticky from McDonald’s
hotcakes. It’s this I think of in the woods, the scent of syrup,
a reason to stay when I first smell trillium: its rank odor
like a rotting animal carcass. But it’s creek crossings I hate
most of all. Every slip on a river-stone, fear floods in
and I find myself humming a lullaby. A tune to quiet
the mind as I wade through rivers, fifty pounds
on my back and a smaller pack strapped to my chest
like a baby. Once, a stranger followed my father home.
She scolded his driving, drifting—no cell phones back then
to call the police. She yelled beneath our post-bloom magnolia
and he stayed buckled. His hands on the steering wheel,
white-knuckled at ten-and-two. The three of us shocked
silent in our car seats behind him, and the station wagon’s
tires crushing pink petals, tender as flesh. When I see
the swollen river yank the woman down, I drop my packs
and run in humming. Self-soothing. Like how a mother
sings to calm her baby and it slows her pulse just the same.
This woman, gasping, pushes up on her own. A surge
of adrenaline. She still bears the weight of her pack.
In those long-ago night hours, when my father stumbled
down the hallway in his sleep- and vodka-stupor,
he reached behind the bars of my crib and clutched
my small warmth, loud in his hands. When he shook
my head like a rattle, the silence he craved came sweet.
It lasted brief as breath underwater.