I lost my pet zebra finches to a snake when I was eight or nine years old. It’s not like I let the birds fly loose or anything — a snake managed to, well, snake up our kitchen windows (a solid 8 or 9 foot vertical climb), sneak into the birds’ cage and then promptly ate the two birds. Sometime later, my dad found the stuffed, now-stuck snake in the bars of the cage and neatly chopped its head off with a kitchen knife. He brought the snake’s body outside and called us down to explain what happened. I had only one question: could I get my birds back in order to bury them? He knew exactly what I meant by that and handed me the knife. I pushed the flat side of the blade against the snake’s body, working the birds slowly back up to the entrance of the digestive track. Once the birds were freed, they were wrapped in their funeral shrouds (toilet paper) and buried with all the dignity and honor I could muster. I then spent the rest of the day chasing my terrified brother with the snake’s head.

Don’t mind me. Just looking for ways to torment my brother.

That’s one of my favorite, most vivid memories of childhood. It’s not a particularly heartwarming moment nor is it a sweet pet story. But when you’ve lost a lot of memories to depression or failed to record a memory due to drinking, drugging, or because you spent a few years eating into disassociation, you hold on to what you have. The memory, while graphic and a bit morbid, always makes me smile. The Rebecca in that story is one of my favorite versions of me; a slightly feral, curious kid who cared about making things right and didn’t worry about the process.

Since that first serpentine encounter, I’ve always looked out for snakes in the wild, hoping to catch another glimpse. Snakes, especially vipers, had joined the list of creatures that fascinated me (funnel web spiders, box jellyfish, any wildcat). There was something about deadly (towards man or zebra finches) creatures and how we share the same world, and I wanted to see them in action. But, Calvert, Texas (population 1,536) was light on deadly creatures and I had to make do with throwing grasshoppers at garden spider webs to see if they would dash to dine.

I’ve been doing a lot of work in therapy this past year on healing old wounds, rewriting false narratives, and learning to be kind to myself. A lot of that work involves talking about the painful parts of growing up and identifying what that particular version of me needed to hear or feel. I inwardly rolled my eyes a lot (really, we still do inner child shit in 2021?) but always did the work in the session. At the end of the day, I wanted to be in a place where I could feel joy, quit projecting my bullshit onto others, and stop assuming the worst about myself. And, despite my now-fifteen years of sobriety, if I could have done it myself I would have done it already.

In these talks with the inner child, we were always focused on what Young Rebecca was feeling and how she was processing the world around her. It took a long time to be in a place where I could look out at the world through Young Rebecca’s eyes but once the connection was made, it was even harder to shrug her off once the session was over. Sometimes I could feel her creep up my throat when I talked to my parents or brothers, trying to keep me from getting too invested in them. Other times she would show up at work, quietly begging to be seen by my boss. Young Rebecca ached to be a writer, and this was the first job where I could really shut down my mind and really write for hours, but if there wasn’t an affirmation of my work, was I really a writer? As we dove deeper in therapy, I noticed these feelings sprouting up more often, so I took to the outdoors to buffer myself with endorphins and UV rays. It seemed like a perfectly normal idea at the time.

Buffering.

It all started with finding a piece of shit, bare bones, no-name blue road bike on NextDoor. I am strongly convinced there was never a time when this bike was in its prime. No water bottle holder, squeaky brakes, tattered bar tape, temperamental gears; as some who strongly identified as “busted from the get go”, we were made for each other. The greenway trails around San Antonio were handy to get back into riding a bike without having to worry about being clipped by a car (and there were signs warning about snakes at each trailhead). Now that we live next to the trails, it’s never been easier to hop on my clusterfuck of a bike and see how far I could go with what little time I usually had. Where I would once ride maybe once a month, I was now riding weekly, ordering bike shorts, and doing weird shit like Googling “what is a good pace for bike riding” and wondering if I could ride the entire trail system in San Antonio.

Buffering.

Like many people, I picked up camping during the pandemic and had by this point a nice collection of camping gear to car camp or hike in and stay in the back country of the local state parks. Car camping was pretty simple and I enjoyed taking my daughter out to a Hill Country state park and go hiking together (always on the look out for snakes). Hike-in camping? I had done this with a friend previously, but never alone. But when my husband and child were going to be out of town for a few days in June, I thought to check and see if any sites were open at one state park I had been meaning to go to. It was a dark skies park and I had an interest in seeing if I could photograph the Milky Way while I was out there.

One hike-in camping spot was available for one night, so it would have to be a short trip but it seemed worth it to try. I was nervous doing it alone, especially since it was too hot to bring the dog and all the extra water he would need on top of my own water supply. I worried the whole way up, wondering what the fuck I was getting myself into and if I was about to become an episode of a true crime podcast. I was violating the one main rule: Stay out of the forest.

I hiked in a little over a mile to my campsite, set up shop, and got ready to go out on the trails for the evening. Without cellphone reception I was really forced to be present and in the moment, allowing my thoughts to drift to ‘Who was this Rebecca, hiking alone? Taking risks? Going in without knowing what would happen? Attempting to photograph the stars?’ when it happened.

I ran into my first viper in the wild.

Curled across my trail was a Western Diamondback Rattlesnake, triangle-shaped head reared, raccoon-like tail flicking a constant warning to stay back. As someone who is used to ignoring red flags, I saw no issue in staying put.

As the rattlesnake continued to buzz in alarm but remained in place (I can relate), I realized that everything I had been doing lately were things Young Rebecca would be totally into. The constant bike rides along the greenway trails, the hikes, and now the solo camping trip complete with my first viper-in-the-wild sighting; I couldn’t help but tear up when it all clicked into place.

For as many (many, many) hours as I spent in therapy trying to figure out what I needed a quarter of a century ago to move forward, I didn’t realize I was also making room for that version of me to remain by my side from now on. Every time I felt her presence, I was unknowingly responding with one of the few coping mechanisms I had at that age — hoping on my bike, walking in scenic rural areas, being quiet and alone with my thoughts. I wasn’t buffering myself from her and her constant interjections; I was soothing her and redirecting her in things that she was into. And I was into it!

Previously, I figured addressing core wounds from childhood would lead to relief. I had no idea doing things she was into was a way to experience joy, a feeling I had simultaneously given up on and felt desperate to reclaim. But I found her joy and I got to share in it.

“Issss sssshe fucking crying?” — “Issss sssshe ssssstill fucking crying?”

Quick reminder: I’m crying in front of a fucking rattlesnake in the middle of nowhere while all this was happening.

I took an obsessive amount of photos and videos of the snake and when it finally decided to make the first move to leave the trail, I had quit the tears and calculated how far away the nearest cell phone tower was so I could share the good news with everyone (the snake news, not the ‘turns out i’m on a camping trip with my inner child and she’s really into it’ news). After I finished the hike, I headed back to camp to play around with my camera and see if I could figure out how to capture the night sky.

Prior to my trip, I had screenshot instructions for various knots to tie for the hammock and helpful tips for shooting the stars, and saved them in my photos for reference. Unfortunately I had neglected to note WHEN I should be trying to attempting Milky Way photography. I can tell you its not Civil Twilight, Nautical Twilight, Astronomical Twilight, or just regular Night because I attempted to photograph during all those times and there wasn’t a Milky Way in sight. Finally, Solar Midnight arrived. I picked out my setting (tree ridges against the sky) and tried again.

When I pulled away to check my photos, I saw the Milky Way on my camera screen.

I did it. I fucking did it. I wondered if I could and instead of sitting in the unknown, just like with camping alone, I attempted it anyway and I fucking took a photo of the goddamn Milky Way.

Of course I cried again.

I imagined a conversation with an 11-year old version of me, before things really hit the fan, where I was telling her that there will be terrible years ahead and it’s going to hurt a lot, but you will get to see a rattlesnake and take a photograph of the Milky Way and you will feel in that moment that every scar was worth it. And in that conversation, she was on board; the contract was signed without hesitation. Do your worst, life, just let there be hope on the horizon.

It took a long time to fall asleep because sleeping pads are worthless and do nothing but remind you that you’re basically sleeping on the ground, save for this inch of tarpy, semi-inflated plastic bullshit. But also because I kept looking at the photos from that day: the rattlesnake, the hiking grounds, the Hill Country on the ride up, the fucking galaxy. I didn’t want the trip to end.

The next morning, as I was cooking breakfast, I startled a rattlesnake a few feet from my stove. As it slipped away, I smiled, sent a little prayer of a thanks out into the universe, and began my day. We had one more hike planned and Young Rebecca really wanted to see that waterfall.

Note: Since this trip, I attempted to ride a substantial chunk of the Salado Creek Trail from the north side of town to my house. My timing of this jaunt was off as I had donated blood the day before and was way too optimistic in how long it would take to feel normal, but I ended up riding 14 miles of trails that day. I had to see what I could do, and so I did.

Note to the note: I’m up to 30+ miles a ride and not slowing down.