“Who knew cowboys were so into diabetes and heart disease?” says Fran.
But no one is complaining. It’s food. And it’s warm. And as the amber light from the rising sun warms your skin, you are gradually thawing after a cold, damp night. In fact, all of this might actually be pleasant if it weren’t for the fact that you all almost drowned yesterday.
“It’s over,” he continues. “Nothing else that we do is going to be worse than what we did yesterday. And guess what? You all made it. You’re here. You just got a little wet and scared, but you’re still here.”
“I hit a rock,” says Troy through a mouthful of beans.
“Okay. That wasn’t ideal,” says Silas. “But you made it here too. And actually, you did a pretty amazing job holding on to that rock. You were like a barnacle on that thing, brother!”
“I would like to officially announce that I pissed myself,” says Fran.
Everyone stops eating for a moment and stares at her.
“Just now?!” says Troy.
“No!” she says. “No. While I was in the water after the rapids! I peed in the river. From fear.”
“Perfectly normal response,” says Silas.
“Cool,” she says. “I’ll remember that. Peeing in a river is normal.”
It’s quiet then, and there’s only the sound of spoons scraping against campware, and the pop of trapped steam bursting out of some newly added firewood. Meanwhile, you wait for the protest.
Last night, everyone went to bed still too shocked to get mad. But now that your basic needs have been met, you expect to hear at least one person say they won’t go on. Troy, for sure. Maybe Fran. Even Will. But instead, everyone just eats, squinting into the sun. You can almost see the fight leaching out of the group as they shovel overly sweet beans into their mouths.
“Today should be relatively smooth paddling,” Silas says. “No rapids. But we have a fair amount of river to cover to get to our next lake and stay on schedule. So let’s finish up and get our packs in the boats!”
Silas stands up then, and for a single moment, he seems unsteady on his feet. Only a couple of you notice as he reaches out for a tree and then seems to get his balance. It all unfolds so quickly, and then he just keeps walking as if nothing happened.Eventually, you do the same, watching him all the while. And though you all seem a little hesitant to start paddling again, finally everyone gets in their boats and pushes off from the shore.
The day that follows is punishing. It starts off okay—you and Fran even manage a rhythm of sorts—but the pain begins after an hour or so. A pinch in your shoulders that moves in a circuit up your neck and down your back. By late afternoon, the temperature has risen and your body is one giant inflammation. It feels like every muscle you have has been stretched like Silly Putty and smushed back into a pulsing, amorphous ball.
By the time you finally find the trailhead in the early evening, your crew is looking rough. Your canoes crunch over the smooth stones beneath the clear lake water and nestle against the wet gritty sand of the shoreline. The campsite is up a small hill, and a stand of shedding birch trees grows diagonally out over the water. You all take long drinks from your water bottles and slump out of your boats.
Silas, sweaty and red like the rest of you, sits you in a circle at the top of the hill. You expect him to build a fire and maybe start some dinner, but he doesn’t. What he does is slowly take the baseball hat off his head and toss it on the ground near you, where it skids into the dirt.
Everyone examines the hat. It’s the first time he’s taken it off, and he looks different without it. Older and younger at the same time. But you don’t have much time to study him because next he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bundle of yellow minipencils held together with a rubber band. He also grabs some scraps of paper. He passes the pencils around and waits patientlyuntil you all have one. Then he starts writing in slow, careful script. When he’s done, he folds the tiny sheet in two and gives the paper a little flick.
It lands squarely in the hat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “Welcome to Fear in a Hat.”
Fran stands up straight, cracking her back.
“Fear in a what?” she says.
“Hat,” says Silas. “Fear in a Hat. That’s the name of the activity.”
He scratches at his hat hair. Then, finally, he sets about starting the evening’s fire, laying out his tools like a surgeon.
“It’s a little cheesy,” he says. “I’m not going to lie. But it’s a way to get us talking about our anxiety. Basically, you write down a fear and toss it in the hat. Then I read them anonymously. The idea here is that we get used to sharing and maybe we feel a little less alone in all this.”
He spreads out his tinder and strikes at his flint. Then he watches while each of you jots a word or two on your paper. Everyone, that is, except you. You get as far as holding your pencil, but then you just kind of stare at the paper. And eventually you fold it in half and place it, blank, in Silas’s hat without making eye contact. The timer sounds the moment you let go.
“Okay,” he says, scooping up the hat. “Moment of truth. I’m just going to grab one here.”
He closes his eyes and reaches into his worn ball cap. You can feel your pulse accelerating. You’re afraid that he’s going to pick your blank paper and know it was you. And then you’ll have to make it right by revealing something. You look around and see thesame tensed eyes and tight mouths that must mirror the look on your own tired face. The ridiculous fact of the matter is: You are all afraid of Fear in a Hat.
“And it looks like I have…”
