116 3rd St SE
Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52401
Outdoors and alone ... sort of
The Nature Call: Author went looking for an ‘Alone’ experience in Iowa, but had a hard time finding a lot of solitude
After I tried my eighth and final “strike anywhere” match, I took a couple of minutes in the last gray rays of twilight to compose myself.
Cursing wouldn’t light my lantern, just unnerve the other campers.
A last exhale and then slowly and humbly I walked to the other camping party about 100 yards away. The nice lady from Solon let me use her lighter while her son broke sticks to add to their fire.
I brought back the flame to my campsite and used it to light my stack of kindling. I brought the bundle of thinly split pine boards in with me because you can’t ever expect to find dry sticks on the ground.
It was a cheery fire. I hoped to get about an hour from of it. Turns out that was my one wish that was granted.
By 10 p.m. the fire was spent and so was I. The Waxing Crescent moon had slipped low behind the screen of trees. It had an illumination of 29 percent. All was dark, very very dark.
My wife and I like watching “Alone” and shows like that where real survivalists get dropped off in the wilderness to fend for themselves. A recent episode got me to thinking, “What would be the Iowa version of ‘Alone?’”
My answer for this was a backpacking overnight in the Yellow River State Forest (YRSF) and catching a trout for supper. If you are a regular reader, you know I am nowhere near being a professional outdoors dude and my sleep apnea keeps me from being a bona fide survivalist.
With scant planning and minimal gear I set off to see how “alone” I could get.
The Heffern Hill Campsite was my target as it seemed closer to a trout stream than the other three backpacking designated sites in the Paint Creek Unit of the YRST. The state forest is almost 9,000 acres across seven units. The Paint Creek Unit holds the majority of acreage.
With my vintage Kelty external frame pack, I walked from my car to the Heffern Hill campsite. The leisurely effort took fewer than five minutes. The site was a generously spaced string of four tenting areas demarcated by four iron fire rings. I instinctively walked to the end first and found a tent already there.
I backtracked to site three and found more than what I expected as it had an Appalachian Trail style three-walled shelter. Perfect, since I didn’t bring a tent the overhang would go a long way to prevent getting soaked overnight with dew. After I surveyed my tiny kingdom, I left my pack as a claim and returned to my car to grab the fly rod.
The park is popular with equestrians. I passed two horse and human campgrounds driving in. The smell of horse in flesh or by dropping was seldom far. The path along Big Paint Creek was straight and wide. It had the appearance of a town-to-town trail from yesteryear.
The high and eroded bank denied me easy fishing opportunities. So eager to wet a line, I found a notch in the high bank to at least try. I already was rigged for nymphing and left it that way despite the conditions that worked against it. There was no room for a proper backcast. My ugly rollcast would have to do.
The first cast produced the first trout, a rainbow. The first trout also exposed a problem: how would I get the fish to hand? The gossamer-like tippet would break if I lifted the fish straight out of the water. The high bank made getting down to water level risky, and owing to my packing light doctrine my landing net was at home.
In the mere seconds it took to contemplate my predicament, the struggling trout pushed my response: I would try to pull it up and onto the high bank with a big gentle sweep. Bink! The trout along with my last Copper John disappeared downstream.
Upstream I tried another spot with a different type of fly, a scud on a tiny No. 22 hook. I had one taker, another rainbow. But before I could slide it to my hand it spit the hook. The several conspicuously swimming brown trout had no interest in the offering. They are famous for being finicky.
The trail was crossed by Little Paint Creek. The outside temperature was 82 degrees, my stream thermometer registered 64. The cool water was a glorious contrast from the hot and humid day. Crossing here meant hopping along stepping stones. Discretion being the better part of valor, I reversed course.
Along the trail was regular evidence of the DNR’s policy version of scorched earth. Horses on the trails expand the types of recreation, which is good. However, their dung are vectors to transport noxious weed seeds into the park. Here and there were patches of ground chemically burned to knock back infestations. It’s a war the managers can’t win but must fight.
Despite an apple and cereal bar for supper, I didn’t feel hungry. I also didn’t feel too alone. Just as I was closing down the fire, a party arrived by headlamps looking to camp in my spot. They backtracked to another Heffern Hill site.
I closed my eyes and realized it was going to be a long, long night. I use a CPAP machine when sleeping, but it wasn’t an option here. If that was strike one, then strike two was me.
My torso carried more than enough weight to defeat any comfort my sleeping bag and pad provided. Right side or left side sleeping may have compensated for no CPAP but they were too uncomfortable. Supine, I experienced a series of momentary relaxation and then sleep only to be forced awake by my own choking and gasping.
Strike three were animals running past my shelter throughout the night. They merged into my moments of sleep that manifested as dreams of snarling coyotes that I couldn’t escape from.
When I gave myself permission to look at my wristwatch the hands said 7 a.m.. I rolled to my left and made eye contact with a rabbit not three feet away. It bounded off — the party was over I guessed. I felt terrible and agreed that maybe just a little more rest was due.
At 8 a.m., I arose a little damp and a lot stiff. Yet I was mostly alone and fully alive. An apple for breakfast was enough, I deserved no more.
As for attempting an “Alone” adventure, I’d check off most of what I set out to try except actually backpacking. To check off the hiking part, I turned right on the Heffern Hill trail instead of left to go back directly to the car. The path was rocky throughout and shrouded with a closed canopy forest. Instead of circumambulating Heffern Hill, the route was more of an assault, the northwest face being steeper and more washed out than the south.
Almost an hour passed since leaving camp before I dropped my pack at the car. The movement did my body good and I felt better than when I got up.
If there's an outdoor adventure you want to emulate in Iowa, you too can try “Alone,” but know you likely won’t be alone.
Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.
John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D., of Marion, teaches U.S. history with an emphasis on environmental issues at Linn-Mar High School and is past president of the Linn County Conservation Board.
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