When I would tell people, family, and friends that I was about to spend the summer and a good part of the fall living and working in the Idaho Wilderness without any connection to the outside world, I was frequently greeted by awe and amazement. Amazement that such a place and opportunity exists in this day and age (one friend was so certain that I could get service and message him if I simply just 'climbed a tree'), as well as amazement at the fact that I'd actually voluntarily choose to do such a thing. In my mind, choosing the immersion crew didn't feel like a particularly difficult choice but in the days leading up to our departure from civilization, the nervous energy of others on our behalf started to make me question myself and just what I'd gotten into. And yet, having been 'out here' for now over a little of a month, I can say that life has felt remarkably...normal?

The final weekend spent in Missoula, our crew of six was treated as if we were going out to war. I at least felt like we were being received as the brave and valiant few who had agreed to do what others felt was impossible and something so strenuous: leaving society. People would question my reasoning for taking the immersion crew when I could've just chosen to be based in Missoula, where I'd have access to all the comforts of modern life off hitch. I can't quite recall what my response would be, but I'd assume it was along the lines of "why not?' When told of the option of the immersion crew in my initial MCC interview, it sounded like an amazing and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live in a totally remote and beautiful location that I could become intimately acquainted with. The part about not being able to leave or talk to anyone back home honestly didn't concern me all that much. Which isn't to say that there aren't people I care about back home, in fact, quite the contrary. But I also felt sure enough in myself and these relationships that I could both take advantage of this incredible opportunity without being hard on these relationships or be unable to enjoy my time at Moose Creek without being able to contact them. I've never suffered much from homesickness. My crewmate described how I feel perfectly on our way to the office on our final morning in town. She said that she feels like she lacks object permanence with people. When around people she loves, they fill her with joy just like any other person. But when they aren't around, she doesn't think about them often or long for them to be with her. I'm paraphrasing, but that was the best description of exactly how I had felt over the years about my friends and family. Truthfully, I often wondered if this made me a bad person or a bad friend, that I could go weeks without wishing the closest people in my life were with me. Recently, I've come to think of it as a blessing. As someone who deeply struggles with sitting still for long periods of time (I'm currently missing day one of hitch due to a cut on my foot and putting a lot of anxious, pent-up energy into writing this), it feels like a relief that I know that I can go on my spontaneous, sometimes extreme, side quests, knowing that I will always have my loved ones at home to return to.

All this isn't to say that I don't miss my friends. I miss their loving embraces and the ability to say anything and be immediately understood. I've also spent more than a few weeks in my tent scrolling through my photos and reminiscing about recent times spent together, and I wait in eager anticipation at every pack-in for a letter while likewise writing long, detailed letters for them that make me smile when I imagine them reading them. Yet as I stood in Penn Station, NYC, hugging two of my best friends that I had practically lived with for the past three months, I almost felt as if they were more sad that I was leaving for this adventure than I was. Of course, I was feeling a lot of excitement for the summer, but I was also the one leaving all of my friends, not just one, to pursue this opportunity.
I think a lot of people would doubt their ability to do such a think like the immersion crew. Our lives are so intertwined with technology, and we take advantage of so many things that our grandparents could only dream of: texting and calling, or even FaceTiming people across the country or the world. Hot water on demand, electricity. I certainly took for granted all these miracles and more, but it's been surprisingly easy to build a new routine without these comforts.

I don't think I'm special for that. I don't think any of our crew is unique in our capacity to disconnect from technology. Coming back from hitch, we are filled with relief and gratitude for the most basic things like potable water, doors, and structures that delineate inside from outside. For me, the most amazing thing to return to is a table to eat, write, or rest my arms on. Once that initial feeling wears off, I don't usually crave more. Do I sometimes wish I could use more than just my headlamp in the bunkhouse to see at night? Yes. And do wish it didn't take me three loads and countless rinses with a washboard to clean some of (I could never achieve all of) the dirt and grime from my clothing? Most certainly. But these adjustments have not felt hard; in fact, they have infused my life with a bit more pleasure and purpose. When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is get out of bed and bring my book to the cookhouse, and I make my breakfast and coffee. I no longer lie in bed scrolling meaninglessly on my phone. During the day, I sit on the porch and read, escape the heat by going down to the river, or sit around the dining table with my crewmates playing games or simply chatting. It's come to the point where I don't even remember what I did to fill my days previously. Would I really sit on the sofa half-watching a TV show while also texting friends, or would we really be sitting in a room together all on our phones sharing funny memes? 

I don't mean to sound like a nagging grandma, romanticising about the 'good ole days' when we didn't have access to all this brain-rotting technology. I think I want people to realize it is possible and it doesn't have to be hard. I don't think I'm a saint for volunteering for the immersion crew, nor do I think I'm some weird hermit who finds living in the woods away from everyone and everything. I'm not really sure what I am. I don't really think doing the immersion crew makes me anything. What I can say is that my time at Moose Creek is happy; I don't feel weighed down by current events and the political/environmental climate that I often feel hopeless to do anything about, and most importantly, I feel connected. I feel connected to the natural world and all its glories. The stunning views I get to see on my hikes and on hitch. The plants that provide me with snacks (serviceberries) and healing qualities (yarrow) when I foolishly cut my feet up from walking barefoot. I feel more connected to the clothes that I invest so much time into getting decently undirty ("clean" would be pushing expectations too far). I feel connected to all the past inhabitants of Moose Creek who have donated their books, left crossword puzzles half completed for me to finish, and left exciting foods that truly test the limits of how many years past a 'best before' date a food can still be consumed. I feel connected to the people who have worked on these premises and who still do, the animals that carry all of our food and mail to allow us to stay in the wilderness. And most of all, I feel immensely connected to my crew with whom I am sharing this unique experience, filling it with meaning, and no doubt playing an enormous role in the ease of disconnection. I almost wrote that they were also 'brave enough' to take on such an adventure this summer. But I don't think any of us were particularly 'brave' for choosing this. I think we all thought it would be foolish to miss such an opportunity that will no doubt change our lives and our relationship with the environment, society, and the people around us in drastic ways. I think we all just asked ourselves 'why not?!'