Maddie Hammond

When I arrived at Pinnacles National Park just before sunset on Christmas Eve eve (December 23rd, 2022), I was in a state of jittery anxiety.

Though the drive north from Los Angeles had been smooth, accompanied by Bob Iger’s audiobook and an iced latte, the little devil on my shoulder took control of my brain just after passing the decidedly non-regal King City. My thoughts immediately shifted from “I love the wilderness” and “I’m so happy to get some solo time” to “I am alone and my car is certainly going to break down” the moment I lost cell service. For the 31-mile, 40-minute drive from the freeway to the park entrance gate, I was a nervous wreck. 

Pinnacles National Park is out there in a way that I have yet to traverse alone since moving West. My visits to Joshua Tree, Sequoia, and Kings Canyon had gotten me used to the comfort of gateway communities. These places just outside the gates to the parks offer the opportunity to purchase homemade ice cream, fuel up the car with wildly expensive gasoline, and get help in case of an emergency. Pinnacles, I found out, does not have one of these familiar safe havens. The park is isolated from any services by roughly 30 miles in each direction. Not particularly far out there at first glance, but when your little anxiety monster starts reminding you that your nearly 10-year-old car isn’t as reliable as she once was, you start to feel very, very alone.

That being said, when my little Mazda rumbled over the cattle guards at the unstaffed front gate of the park, I felt a light wave of relief wash over me. I made it there safe, gas tank still full enough to make it back to civilization, serpentine belt intact, 4 wheels still firmly attached to the car. Mule deer grazed on the south side of the bumpy road, immune to the voice in my head that was still whispering “everything is about to go wrong for you”. When I parked outside the Visitor Center and walked toward the camp store to check in, the Good Part of my brain attempted to drown the little demon. “You’re solo camping in an established campsite with resources, you are not alone”, I kept reminding myself.  When I opened the wooden door and entered the camp store, I once again felt marginally better. The host was kind and welcoming as he drew out on the map where my site was located. I purchased some firewood and headed back to my car, firmly on a mission to feel better and get my tent set up before darkness set in. I sent the obligatory “I arrived at camp, here is my itinerary for the next few days” message to my family and a good friend in LA- making sure my solo travel plans were not a mystery should anything actually go wrong. Accountability buddies are key when traveling alone. Once I saw that my messages had gone through, I started up the engine and headed toward my campsite. 

As I unloaded at Site 37, I took mental note of what the place really had going for it. A canopy of valley oak trees left me a thick layer of insulation on the ground, thanks to their recently fallen leaves. A healthy coast live oak offered privacy between me and my neighbors, who were presumably inside their large white camper van, enjoying the warmth and each others’ company. At the back of my site sat a picnic table, standard but well-maintained fire ring, and a generously-sized food locker. It was, in short, a wonderful campsite. Despite being pleased with my spot, I still could not shake off the cloud of anxiety that was still looming over my head. Perhaps it was the gloomy gray aura of a cloudy-covered sunset. Maybe it was the rapidly declining temperature? Though the feeling of dread was ebbing and flowing, it was ever-present as I set up camp. 

Thankfully, I was successful in my mission of having my tent assembled before the darkness set in. I’d even had time to decorate the interior with some fairy lights and a tiny disco ball. As cold air filled up the valley, I zipped myself in and settled down with my audiobook. All before 5 pm. Although I wasn’t particularly hungry, it occurred to me that if I didn’t eat, I’d be starting my first full day in the park with no fuel of my own. Plus, eating before bed is good when trying to stay warm while camping- the process of digesting keeps the body a little toastier than it would be otherwise. So, after lounging around in the comfort of my tent for about an hour, I started to seriously ponder what would be for dinner. I’d brought a surplus of food, so I had options. 

My daydreams of soy chorizo and couscous were interrupted as the sound of a stampede filled my ears. A group of… something… stormed past my tent, startling me enough to make my heart skip a beat. I trepidatiously unzipped the rain fly of my tent, peeking through at the assumed pack of giant monsters. It was, in fact, a particularly bold group of four raccoons. The trash pandas circled the food storage locker, attempting to open it. Thankfully, even in my anxious state, I’d made sure that it was securely locked. Unbothered by my headlamp illuminating them, the four bandits scoured every remaining inch of my campsite, hoping to score a snack. After thoroughly ransacking the place and not finding a crumb, they moved on to terrorize the next occupied campsite. It was at this point that I decided it was my dinnertime. After a massive failure trying to operate my newly purchased JetBoil stove, I quickly built a small fire and began boiling a tiny cauldron of water the old fashioned way. Although my anxiety demon was still in the driver’s seat, I managed to successfully cook dinner in a Stasher bag. There really is something to being comfortable around a campfire. 

Fueled up by my spicy dinner and mentally exhausted from the hours spent fighting off a full-blown anxiety attack, I headed to bed.