Rattlesnakes and Revelations: How a Solo Backpacking Trip Changed My Life

“The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences.”– Jon Krakauer

It was 2004. I was 21 years old, close to graduating college, and about to embark on my first backpacking trip in Dolly Sods, West Virginia—one of the most remote, beautiful places on the East Coast, known for its high-altitude terrain (for East Coast) and rare flora. I didn’t even know people chose to sleep outside, let alone the difference between sleeping pads or ultralight tents.

But I got the gear. A sleek new Osprey pack, a two-person tent, a sleeping pad, and a ridiculously warm negative-32-degree sleeping bag I snagged on sale at REI. The trip was life changing. I couldn’t wait to get back out there.

And yet … that pack sat in storage for the next 18 years.

It gathered dust next to my climbing gear and old college textbooks, only moved when I moved. Every year, I told myself this is the year. The year I find someone to go with me. The year I get back out there.

When Life Happens, but Adventure Doesn't.

In those 18 years, I built a full life: earned two master’s degrees, advanced in my teaching career, stepped into leadership roles, bought and sold homes, got married, moved from D.C. to Maryland and back to Virginia, gave birth to and began raising an incredible daughter, ran countless miles, vacationed, and rode the wild wave of the 2020 lockdown. I lived. But I wasn’t adventuring.

Whitney

Somewhere in 2023, it hit me: if I kept waiting for someone else to be ready, I was never going to go. The gear in the basement wasn’t going to move itself. My life wasn’t going to shift unless I did the shifting.

That year was rough. My career had stalled. My marriage was unraveling. Running, my one dependable therapy, wasn’t cutting it anymore. So shortly after separating from my ex-husband, I decided to go solo: a one-night backpacking trip in Shenandoah National Park.

I Googled the gear I’d need, spent a small fortune at REI, packed everything up, and hit the trail.

When a Rattlesnake Held Up a Mirror

I should probably mention this: I have an absolutely paralyzing fear of snakes. Crying, can’t breathe, recurring nightmare kind of fear. I’d rather face a Chupacabra than a snake on the trail.

So when a friendly family passed me two miles in and casually warned, “Hey, heads up, there’s a rattlesnake on the trail in about a quarter mile,” I froze. My legs went numb. My stomach turned. I wanted to turn around, get back to the car, and head home.

But then I thought about the small fortune I had spent at REI. About about how deeply disappointed I’d feel if I didn’t see this through. So I took off the bear bell (I’d much rather see a black bear than miss hearing a snake), gave myself a pep talk, and kept walking.

More Whitney

A quarter mile came and went. Then a half mile. No snake.

Relief.

That had to be the only snake in Shenandoah, right?

I found a quiet spot, set up my hammock, made tea, and settled in. No cell signal. Just me, my thoughts, my journal. Peace.

Then I heard it. That dry, unmistakable rattle, buzzing through the trees like a cicada. Then voices: “SNAKE! RATTLESNAKE!”

My heart jumped, but not as high. I stayed put. Every time the rattle sounded, it meant hikers were coming through. The snake, it seemed, lived there. It was part of the landscape. Part of my experience.

By evening, the snake and I were coexisting. We were part of the same world. I started to think of it differently, not as a threat, but a mirror.

Coexisting with the Metaphorical Rattlesnakes in My Life

Sitting in that hammock, I started to think about all the “rattlesnakes” in my life—the things that could have stopped me. That had. That still could. Real fears with low odds of true danger. Challenges that could paralyze me, but only if I let them.

The truth is, I have rattlesnakes all around me: at work, at home, in my community. But I’m tougher now. Stronger. I know what I’m capable of. I trust myself.

The next day, on the hike out, I paused at a stream crossing. There, basking in the sunlight, was a beautiful water snake. I stopped. Admired it. And I smiled.

As soon as I got home, I booked my next solo trip: paddleboarding the Shenandoah River and car camping. Rattlesnakes be damned.

When

Going solo was life-changing. And while there’s still a place for solitude in the woods, something incredible happened once I stopped making excuses and started living the life I actually wanted: people with similar values and passions started showing up in my life.

There’s still adventure in doing things alone. But now there’s also company. Community. Connection.

And sometimes, even in the middle of the forest, it feels like I’ve finally come home.