A Starry Night
I awoke from a dream about basketball, of all things.
I was back home and playing a pickup game with childhood friends who had somehow both grown to match my current age while also not changing at all. My grin stretched as I hit difficult shot after shot. Off the backboard, between outstretched arms, behind my back; it didn’t matter. Every shot ended in a satisfying flick of the net. This hadn’t been nearly so easy in my childhood; clearly the last few months of casual shoot-arounds (twice a month at most) at outdoor courts in San Francisco had paid off.
But as my dream dissipated, I realized with a pang of disappointment that I had not become a hoops hero overnight. And I wasn’t back in my listless suburb in Michigan, I was in a Native American-style tipi in the middle of Montana. And it was the middle of the night. And I really had to pee.
I considered my options. Even protected by a three-tiered defense, bundled up inside a thick sleeping bag, under a heavy, stiff blanket that could have doubled as an area rug, head cradled by my cotton cardigan, I could feel the brutal chill of the air probing for a weak point in my armor. The thin fabric walls of the tent shivered as they braced against the dark prairie wind.
I can wait it out, I thought. I closed my eyes and laid there for several minutes, urging my body to sleep. The pressure against my bladder did not fade into the background of slumber, as it often does; the icy atmosphere added just enough discomfort to keep me from returning to my fantasies of athletic prowess.
Begrudgingly, I began to formulate a plan. I can probably pull on my thick jacket without leaving the warmth of the sleeping bag, I thought. Once I have that, I can get out of bed, put on my shoes and hustle over to the cabin bathroom, less than 500 feet away. It won’t be too bad. Besides, didn’t Jordan say there was a meteor shower tonight? I’d fallen asleep before the sun went down last night, so maybe I’d get a chance to peek at the sky now.
Newly encouraged, I began my work. The first phase was executed perfectly, half an arm stealthily leaving my sleeping bag, snaking around my luggage, finding a zipper, digging through layers of clothing to finally grasp the thick fleece and pull it back into my sleeping bag. I wiggled it on awkwardly but effectively, exposing no vulnerable spots to the cold.
Once dressed, I stumbled my way to the tipi entrance. As I pushed open the flap and stepped outside, I looked skyward. Our campsite was on the edge of the enforced dark-sky zone, half of the horizon black, indistinguishable from the sky and the other half thinly populated with dim lights. About a dozen other tipis, faintly visible, dotted the meadow between our own and the bathroom, occupied by young couples and their small children. And past them, small lamps protruding from the ground weakly illuminated the last leg of the journey. Above and all around, stars were clearly visible — more than I had ever seen before. But nature calls. Bathroom first, stargazing later, I decided.
As I trod further from the safety of our tent, dry grass crunching beneath my feet, my thoughts drifted toward the native predators of Montana. In the past week, we’d watched bears boldly stride beside our car, heard the howling of wolves in the not-too-far distance. Did you know grizzlies can eat up to 100,000 huckleberries a day? How many Marks is that? The night felt oppressive. Small shadows shape-shifted as I stared, slight gradations in the dirt became hungry, leering critters.They watched my every step, waiting for the moment I let my guard down to pounce.
Slightly on edge, I slowly made my way to the bathroom. When I was younger, I would only leave the basement with one wary eye cast downward, shuffling sideways up the stairs to prevent a surprise assault from some imagined evil. Here, I moved with a similar caution but without the luxury of knowing the angle of attack.
After a jumpy but uneventful journey, I arrived at the restroom, relieved myself, and stepped back out into the night. Man it’s cold, I thought, keeping my hands in my pocket as I ambled back.
Suddenly, I heard padded footsteps heading directly toward me from the dark. My breath caught, heart quickened, all thoughts of distant stars discarded. I began backpedaling back toward the safety of the bathroom, eyes frantically darting, ears straining, assessing the threat before me. As the noise came closer, I imagined worst-case scenarios. A wolf? A bear? I balled my fists, aware that my human arms would be useless against any of these nocturnal hunters. Maybe I could take a single wolf, I had time to think, and then it was upon me.
The beast growled and leapt at me with shiny teeth, jaw snapping the air near my hand. I half-yelled, half-stammered “Hey!”, still retreating, pace quickening. From the darkness, I heard more footsteps and a second set of disembodied eyes and jaws joined the first, bouncing as they hounded me. It’s a pack of wolves, I realized, my fear turning to terror. As I started to call for help, we entered the light of a lamp and I got my first look at what had been chasing me.
After a few seconds of furious pattern recognition, I recognized the goofy grins that distinguish man’s best friend from worst enemy. These were dogs, probably belonging to some fellow campers. My panic slowly receded and relief set in. As I slowed down, I saw that they were no longer growling at me but had tongues out and tails wagging. I stopped retreating and both dogs approached me. The larger one playfully leaped up and gently gnawed at my hand. Both of them stood on their hind legs, put their paws on me and leaped up to lick my face excitedly.
As it hit me that these two dogs just wanted to share their love with me, I laughed, softly at first but louder as I absorbed the emotions of the last minute. Fears abated, I sat down and let both dogs lick my face to their hearts content, scratched their bellies until they rolled over with contented smiles. The heat of the dogs and my own still flustered body made the cold air feel irrelevant. I laid down, thoughts of returning to the tent discarded, and they crawled on top of me, warm furry blankets.
No longer afraid of wild animals with these two protectors, I was free to gaze skyward. The night sky looked brilliant, vivid. The stars were actually twinkling at me, pulsing with energy. For the first time in my life, I could see the Milky Way, a wide silver swath across the flecked sky. Fixing my gaze to a point in the sky, it wasn’t long before I caught a meteor roaring into view and fizzling out. Fireworks are fantastic, I decided, but no man-made spectacle can compare to these rocky visitors who spent hundreds of years in space and culminate in a few fiery seconds.
I laid there for a while with the dogs and thought about my own relative insignificance, and the corresponding even greater nothingness of my worries. I had always rolled my eyes at the supposed restorative properties of nature, but I marveled at how quickly my own perspective could shift, my concerns and doubts falling away like grains of sand.
