All by myself

I’ve found a show I love. No. I adore it. I have watched every season, and I fantasize about being on the show. Now granted, I will never, ever be on the show, or even qualified to send in an audition tape, because it’s for wilderness survivalists, and I am not one of those. I have shot a gun (with my son at a range, very fun, and I was a surprisingly good shot for someone who had never, until that day, held a gun). I have drunk from a stream and caught a few fish in my lifetime. When I was a little kid, I made forts outside. As an adult, I make forts inside for when my grandson is pretending to be a dragon or dinosaur. I can build an amazing fire (in our wood stove with a blow torch to get things started). Otherwise, I’m only qualified in one area, and that is the title of the show—Alone.

Each season, the show follows ten wilderness survival experts who are dropped into a remote part of the world, far, far away from even the sound of an airplane. They each get some cameras to film their activities. They’re miles apart from each other. And then the crew leaves, and we watch as the survivalists talk about how they will outlast each other and what they will do with the prize money if they’re the last one out there. They all know how to fish, bow-hunt, trap, build fires and shelters. They can forage and eat mushrooms that don’t kill you. They’re not afraid of being eaten by wolves or bears.They only get to take ten things from the civilized world, like a pot and some rope. Otherwise, they’re on their own.

Their days consist of building and tending the fire; getting water; and finding food. They chop down trees and dig out shelters. They watch the sunset and talk about the cold. They’re always cold, because the show takes place in the late fall/early winter. They fish with varying degrees of success. Most of them are skilled bow hunters, and they shoot squirrels and grouse. They all want to kill a moose, but so far, not many have. Me, I have a moose-shaped towel hook. Also, I have seen moose in the wild in several states.

I have none of their skills. I have no desire to learn them (except maybe the bow-hunting, because how cool is that? Also, Robin Hood had a big impact on me as a child, and my kids have a bow from their Hunger Games days). I hate being cold. Even more, I hate being dirty. I like the outdoors, but more as I admire it on my way indoors. Whenever I tramp around in the woods, I say, “I should do this more,” and then do not do it more. For reasons that make no sense at all, I am convinced I will die in the jaws of a grizzly bear. I live in Connecticut. The odds are in my favor, but hey. Fear is fear.

All that being said, the most essential challenge of the show is the solitude. Aside from the cold, the hunger, the dampness, the dirtiness, smoke, the exhaustion, the staying-alive part, this is where I think I’d really shine. In the early episodes, the survivalist contestants tap out because they’re too hungry and can’t seem to find food, or they’re too cold, or they injure themselves. But as the show goes on, it becomes more of a mental game. Our contestants get the hang of their day-to-day, they learn their area, catch their fish, eat squirrels, boil their water. Some of them even carve chess pieces or make canoes for fun. But as the weeks tick on, some of the most graceful and adept of them tap out because they’re just too tired of the solitude.

This is where I could win, I think. I have no evidence to support this claim. In fact, I have plenty of evidence to contradict it. I can barely go a few days without seeing my daughter and grandchildren. McIrish and I are rarely apart for more than 24 hours. I talk to my sister almost every day, and a couple of friends several times a week. Buttercup and I are welded together. Starting the day without coffee is my idea of roughing it.

From the comfort of my chair, my hand stroking my doggy’s soft fur, a glass of water with orange slices at my side, I nevertheless think I could last two months without the sound of another person’s voice. As the survivalists watch the sunset and listen to the river and the howling wolves, I think, “Yeah. I would love that.”

Funny, isn’t it? I’m sixty years old, but some part of me thinks I’m twenty-five, up for a life-endangering adventure in a part of the world I’ve never been. It’s the kind of thing that keeps the old imagination sparking.