A Black Woman's Guide to Feeling Safe in the Outdoors
Sunset in the Mojave desert or Hayikwiir Mat'aar. Photo courtesy of author
I was raised by the “get home before the streetlights come on” generation of Black folks. This meant that I was free to roam the neighborhood with my little friends without much adult supervision, but I had to be home before dark or else those privileges would be revoked. This rule gave me a sense of independence that fuels my confidence to this day. I know I can recreate outdoors on my own safely as an adult.
I am 27 years old. I love hiking, backpacking, and cycling on all types of terrain. And despite growing up as a free-range kid in the 90s, all of these activities deeply concern my mother. When I tell my mother that I am planning a trip into an area with no cell service, I can hear her furrowed brow through the phone and interpret her sighs as, “This child done lost her damn mind.” She is right to be concerned, but I know I am equally right to find my own way. Whether she realizes it or not, this is how she raised me
“She associates the backcountry with danger, I associate it with freedom. I guess safety is subjective.”
I find it intriguing that she does not express the same level of concern when I go for a neighborhood run or visit the grocery store even though these are spaces where I feel hyper vigilant. In my experience as a Black woman, I feel significantly safer in the backcountry than I have ever felt in any populated area. I have had far more instances of feeling threatened by predatory humans than by predatory animals. That feeling of distance from civilization is my main motivation for recreating in remote areas. For years, I dreaded telling my mother about my whereabouts because of her overbearing opinion, but I finally overcame my apprehension with her to talk about what safety means to us and find common ground. I cannot speak for every feminine-expressing BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) on how safe different spaces feel, but I hope my experience can give you (the reader) confidence to have this conversation about safety with your loved ones.
I am a grown woman. I know how to be vigilant of my surroundings. I know how to calculate risk and make decisions to help me feel safe just as I had to do as a child. However, my mother seems to express more concern for me now than she expressed when I was child. If it were up to her, I would stay under her roof only venturing out to take the dogs for a walk—occasionally. Are things really getting scarier outside or is the endless news cycle simply reminding her of dangers that have always existed and how helpless she feels? Or maybe the thought of me traveling in unfamiliar areas is more frightening because of the inherited trauma—the fears stretching all the way back to slavery that associate traveling freely in the outdoors with punishment and death. My hypothesis is that my mother’s lack of experience in the outdoors has shaped her views. She associates the backcountry with danger, I associate it with freedom. I guess safety is subjective.
The first time I truly got my mother shaken up was nearly ten years ago as a college freshman when I set out for my first backpacking trip with a few of my college friends. We were hiking in Chumash and Micqanaqa’n land, also known as the Sespe Wilderness in Southern California. She was worried about a number of things from dangerous animals like snakes and mountain lions to the idea of me being stranded without cell reception. Her fears were valid, not because my life was actually in danger but because she had no context for evaluating risk in that environment. After all, she had never done such a thing.
Sunset in the Mojave desert. Photo courtesy of author.
At the same time, I was not afraid because I felt prepared, and because my more experienced peers were able to guide me. I had access to a lot of research and resources to prepare myself for my trip including guides on how to interact with wildlife, find water, start a fire, hang a food bag, leave no trace, and so much more. I find comfort in statistics. I never really feared venturing outdoors as long as I could do the research and feel a sense of preparedness. Learning that a person in the U.S. is 6,265 times more likely to die of a vehicular crash than a snake bite was also pretty reassuring to me. The odds were definitely in my favor. However, none of this was reassuring enough to my mother. She told me she wouldn’t sleep a wink until I returned safely from my 3-day trek. My feeling has always been the opposite. I get the best sleep in the middle of nowhere. Safety is subjective.
What I have found over time and after many more trips is that I feel safer in the backcountry than I do in most populated spaces including home. A significant majority of the moments in my life that I have felt threatened are by predatory humans, not predatory animals. For a long time, those two types of threats were blurred together for me. My mother’s fear forced me to see danger where none existed. I would be camping on a patch of sand in the middle of the Mojave Desert, or hiking in the Chilean Andes, with no other human in sight and still anxious that someone might attack me at my most vulnerable. Thankfully, the more time I spent outdoors, the more my mother’s fears proved unfounded and the more peace I found while recreating in remote areas.
On the other hand, I have had threatening encounters in populated spaces. I cannot count how many times I took the long way home on my run, or bike ride, because I was being followed and did not want to reveal my residence. I cannot count the number of times I have sought help against sexual predators from grocery store clerks and bartenders. I have lied to overly inquisitive strangers about my whereabouts when traveling alone so that I would not be targeted at my hotel room or followed. All of these incidents are data points that support the theory that people are more dangerous than nature, but there is more to it than that. Safety is subjective.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines fear as “a feeling of anxiety concerning the outcome of something or the safety and well-being of someone.” When I am in spaces with a higher frequency of human interactions, I do feel a greater sense of fear because it is harder to control the outcome. Humans are complicated and unpredictable. It is difficult to assume how someone will react to my presence. I feel safer outdoors because nature is predictable and human interaction is minimal. Nature does not treat me differently for my identity or attack me for malicious reasons. I can have more control of the outcomes in natural environments especially when I can understand and respect the land, plants, and animals.
Of course, the possibility remains that I could encounter a violent, predatory animal, but the chances of that occurring are lower than the odds of being murdered for running down a residential street in a white neighborhood or sexually harassed for wearing spandex on my bike commute to work.. The possibility of encountering a dangerous human outdoors also remains but is still far more likely to occur in a populated area. Also, I have personally found that most humans have a mutual respect for the outdoors when you are in wilderness, or they may just be less suspicious of a Black woman hiking on a trail far from any private property than they are of the same woman running in dark clothing down their street. Nonetheless, I know the differences here lie in my perception of fear being based on the sense of control I have of my surroundings. Realizing this granted me a deeper understanding of my mother’s fear due to a lack of control.
“ I have had far more instances of feeling threatened by predatory humans than by predatory animals.”
Camping on Catalina Island. Photo courtesy of author
With a better grasp of my mother’s feelings, I learned ways to help her feel a greater sense of control. When planning a trip, I share my knowledge with her to give her confidence that I am well prepared. I let her know my emergency plan including how to respond in the event that I become an overdue hiker—rather than panicking because I got caught up taking too many photos or had a mid-hike nap. I report on how the trips worked out to confirm whether my preparations made for a successful journey. Making her a part of the process has challenged me to find ways that will increase my sense of control over the outcomes, and it has given her more confidence in my ability to manage the risks of remote recreation. She may still lack the personal experience of recreating outdoors, but sharing my experience helps her understand why I have less fear of it. Safety is subjective.
I understand that everyone perceives fear differently and has different requirements for what makes them feel safe. It is human to try to avoid danger by trusting our fear instinct. Trauma can work in mysterious ways, and I will never fault anyone for being apprehensive about recreating because they have had a bad experience outdoors, love someone who has, or have simply heard about a scary situation taking place. I would only encourage folks to consider taking greater control of the outcome by doing the research, having a plan, and making time to reflect on their experiences so they can grow and improve on maximizing their safety.
Share your narratives with others when you are comfortable to spread awareness of what the outdoor spaces are really like. Consider how others feel when you are sharing space with them and ask them what you can do to help them feel safe. Part of my life’s mission, and the reason I share my journey, is to encourage more BIPOC to take up space unapologetically and foster their own relationship with the natural environments that are so quickly perishing at the hands of colonialism.
Alexa Everson is a 2021 CamelBak - MBC Writing Fellow. To learn more about the fellowship, click here. Or visit her profile page.
As knowledge of the outdoors tends to be handed down generationally, this broken chain has denied today’s black youth the tools they need to be able to tackle the outdoors with any degree of confidence […] we have effectively become an urbanised people.