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Laying there in my car after waking at 3:30 a.m., I wasn’t sure why I felt so restless.
Sure, I was camping alone in the woods—but that wasn’t anything unusual.
Then I noticed the full moon getting ready to set… Through rain-dappled windows and breath-fogged glass, it looked beautifully haunting.
It reminded me of being 19, sprawled on the dorm room floor like someone seeking warmth from the sun on a chilly day—But this time, I was bathing in the moon’s glow.
Searching for stillness, for solitude, for comfort. Letting the light fill me like it was the only truth I had in that time of my life.
Later that summer, I discovered the altitude I’d been living at—7,000 to 8,000 feet —made moonlit nights so crisp I could almost pretend it was day. So clear, in fact, that I dared to drive by its glow alone.
No headlights. Just instinct, memory of the road, and the moon to guide me.
I felt them before I saw them.
I flicked on my lights just in time—A thunder of hooves and startled hearts crashed across the road and up the mountain.
A herd of elk, cloaked in the shadow of the trees. I wasn’t sure if it was their hooves or my own pulse I was hearing louder.
I never tried that again! But the magic of it wasn’t lost on me.
Later that same summer, we played the game—moon-tag. A mix of hide-and-seek and tag, woven through the shadows of a forest clearing. The moon turned tree trunks and brushes into hiding places even while standing in the open.
In our exuberance, we turned it into a kissing game. We’d duck into darkness, revealing our crushes with a whisper, quick kiss, and/or embrace—then dash away, laughing and breathless.
It was innocent, wild, and exhilarating.
In later years, when I had a family, it was a different game of loving expression. Shared moonlit walks with no flashlights. Just our feet on quiet well warn paths, guessing at the sounds beyond our sight.
A beaver tail slapping the water. A rustle in the brush—bear? No, probably raccoon.
The kids were part thrilled, part terrified. I understood both feelings, having once wandered into a cornfield alone, armed with a stick and blind trust of a child sent to hunt “snipe.” It was a GenX rite of passage.
Regardless, I’ve always loved a good moonlit night. The simplest joys—those are the ones that linger longest in our hearts and minds.
Which brings me back to something I hinted at in my first blog…
I was nearly a teenager when I started sneaking out under the cloak of night. I was getting into trouble, but not the kind you might expect. It was mostly innocent, but I was definitely testing boundaries.
What I remember most was the purity of my intent from the unspoiled wonder of the age. I was curious—about the night this time—not completely rebellious. I wanted to experience life in the world of darkness.
By that age, I’d already outgrown the nightmares—no more giant ants carrying people away, no spider-covered floors, no bee swarms attacking. I had moved beyond fear.
Now, I was emboldened—by instinct, by mystery, and by a growing hunger to understand life outside the lines drawn for me.
These are some of the reasons why I’m glad we didn’t have the internet back then.
Firstly, because I may have been distracted from such curiosities having knowledge just a google search away, but also…
I would have most likely been trying to record these experiences which would have taken me away from the true adventures of life. Having missed the point completely—trying to capture them on film rather than memory. I struggle with that a lot now. Especially trying to capture what I know for my audiences today.
And I was living an adventurous life that I’m; NOW, trying to recover from missing.
One day, I pushed the boundary of my usual roaming range of understanding and experience.
I needed to see the ocean. Not from the hilltop view of the neighborhood—but up close. I wanted to touch and feel the waves.
By then I was on two wheels and more often with shoes then not. Having experienced the rath of a bike pedal too many times to forget.
Fast, stealthy, and smarter with my choices of navigation. I’d found backroads that curved around lakes and dunes where grownups rarely wandered.
But I misjudged the distance. In a car it had felt like seconds, but on a bike…? It took a bit longer, even with childhood inhibition and adrenaline. 🙂
I was just a few blocks from seeing the first glimpses of water. The smell of salt hit my nose, and I noticed the position of the sun in the sky. The quality of light was fading, and my heart leaped.
I was in trouble already; I just knew it. It meant my parents were on their way home.
I turned back. Fast, legs pumping. It was dark enough by the time I reached the secluded turns of the underbrush, that the bats had come out. One darted right in front of me, or I might have missed their presence due to the fear of being discovered “off the property.” Which was the rule we were asked to follow.
I’d never seen so many bats in one area and was momentarily distracted. I couldn’t help but stop to fully marvel at their travels. I had already learned of their echolocation abilities, and this was an opportunity to witness it firsthand. I was intrigued by the ease and agility at which they navigated through limbs and trees.
I had a thought, “I wonder if they would see any flying object as potential food?” Noticing they were after moths on this evening. I bent down, picked up a moth sized pebble, tossed it into the air where they had been swooping, and watched for their reactions. To my amazement, one followed it.
I tried again—another swoop. And then…I remembered I was late getting home. I grabbed a handful of pebbles to see if I could entice more than one with no takers, then sped on down the road towards home.
As a side note, I have tried this several times since with no results. They must have been either indulging me or extra hungry that evening. If you try it, be sure not to aim for the bats.
Back to the race towards home.
I reached the crest of the hill overlooking our house just in time to see my mother pulling into the driveway. I snuck in through the back, pretending I’d just been playing in the yard.
Diversion was a friend in that moment, even though it didn’t feel quite right. This was when responsibility didn’t seem to be in my control, but I was “testing the waters.”
At some point, I realized I wasn’t just responsible for myself—I was responsible to myself.
For my actions, my instincts, my knowing. And for the consequences that followed.
I knew how to manage my downtime with creativity and adventure. Inserted my “free will” whenever I could—I craved freedom, explored with purpose, and learned quickly.
My biggest fault I see in this learning now, is that somewhere along the way, I started listening too closely and allowed their seeds; or rather insecurities of my wellbeing, shape me when they didn’t even try to understand me. I allowed them to define what was “safe,” “acceptable,” “good” for me, even if I didn’t always agree.
I followed out of respect instead of listening to my own experiences, knowing, and instincts. My inner compass…
That’s when I began to question the stories they told, one being “Nothing good happens after dark.” I know now what they meant, but back then I didn’t—So I tested it.
Stray cats had found refuge on our porch from being abandoned on the road near our home.
We named them, played with them, fed them, welcomed them into our backyard. Cloudy, the faint orange tabby, and others whose names I forget but can see with clarity—their habits and personalities.
It wasn’t long before the raccoons came too. Partaking in the food that was left in the open for the cats. Then later, in the darkest of nights, the opossums.
At first, I thought they were just larger strays or even more dominant racoons. I watched from the shadows, staying downwind, silent, and warry.
Still, I couldn’t see exactly what was going on, so one night I got the idea of leaving the garage interior lights on, then put the food bowl in its glow. It took all of them longer than usual to visit the bowl, but when they did…what I saw stayed with me.
These massive, slow-moving creatures—like giant rats—entered the space without fear.
The cats moved aside. The raccoons backed off. The possums just were. Unbothered. Unshaken.
That night I learned something about strength. About presence. About the quiet power of not needing permission to exist.
I had always thought my tendency to watch, to move slowly and with intention, was a weakness. But that night, I saw it differently. Maybe the meek really will inherit the earth.
Maybe they already have…
And maybe—just maybe—those of us who walk softly in moonlight, who question the rules written in fear, and who listen to the rustle in the dark instead of running from it—
We’ve known the truth all along.
As always, the forest grows, the journey continues, adventure awaits--and you’re never truly alone.
I’ve always known I had a different perspective. Now I hope you can too.
Those who know, call me Niki. Once you know, you can too.
