My first forays were tentative-short hikes near home through a densely wooded oak-and-juniper forest (ouch!), and down a dry creek bed (much easier). Finally, I worked up the confidence to try what I considered the ultimate in night hiking: an overnight in New Mexico’s White Sands National Monument.
The night I arrived, the moon was full and brilliant in the soft black sky; so bright, in fact, that I could see my own shadow (like a hiking partner) as I postholed up steep slopes of sand. I pitched camp and set out exploring. Crisscrossing lines of rabbit tracks barely scratched the surface. Frozen condensation made the dunes glisten like far-off forested ski slopes dappled by the midday sun. I found myself squinting in the brilliantly reflected moonlight and anxiously looking back to make sure I could still see my tent, or my tracks. Despite the little moments of wonderment, I still felt awkward and out of place, like a desert tortoise in the middle of a rain forest. I turned around because something just wasn’t clicking.
“If you want to see a different world,” Rabe had told me, “you have to become nocturnal.” Easy for the bat man to say, but the fact is, compared to owls and other nocturnal animals, most of us humans are decidedly disadvantaged when it comes to piercing the black curtain.
The eyes of mammals have two distinct types of nerve cells: rods and cones. Rods are highly sensitive to light and essential for night vision. Cones detect colors and allow the eye to focus. Since most mammals are creatures of the night, their eyes are loaded with rods and lacking in cones. This enables them to see in very low light situations, but they are usually color blind and don’t have the 20/20 focused vision most humans possess.
We day-adapted humans have far more cones than rods. The light-sensitive nerve cells that we do have are clustered at the periphery of the retina, away from the cone-filled center that facilitates our regular, focused vision. Maybe it’s some kind of evolutionary remnant, like the little toe that keeps getting smaller over the millennia because it doesn’t get used, but humans do have traces of night vision. We can see in the dark, ever so slightly, out of the corners of our eyes.
With this in mind, two guys from Taos, New Mexico, decided to see if making better use of peripheral vision can make you a better night hiker. They attached a foot-long metal rod with a fluorescent bead on its end to the bill of a baseball cap. By staring at the bead while walking, they found they could essentially turn off their focused-sight capabilities and let their light-sensitive peripheral vision take over. Things were fuzzy and in shades of gray, but they could “see” just fine without a flashlight.
“One time there was no moon and the sky was completely overcast, but we had no problems,” recalls Nelson Zink, a Taos psychotherapist and half of the duo. “There is always enough ambient light in the night sky to see.”
Zink and partner Stephen Parks found that being in a peripheral state had other benefits. “Once people realize they can see in the dark, their fears of the night, and everything else, are relieved. Night walking alleviates anxieties,” says Zink. “This kind of hiking allows you to become part of the night, not an alien. This isn’t magic. Everything you need to travel at night is in your evolutionary roots. It’s been a part of human physiology for a long time. All you have to do is use it.”
None of which is news to bat man Rabe. After years of staying up late at night doing field research, he seems more comfortable in the dark than he does in the daylight. He can travel through the blackness of a ponderosa pine forest to find where bats roost in tree snags. He knows how to identify a deer by its bark and an elk by its snort. And in this age of instant gratification, he’s developed the patience necessary to sit for hours in the dark, waiting and watching. Once in a while his patience is rewarded and a notoriously elusive animal, such as a mountain lion, will pay him a visit. “When it comes to seeing charismatic mega fauna, like bear and lion and bobcat and fox,” says Rabe, “night is the time to be out there.”
But there’s more going on under the cloak of darkness. Mammals of all shapes and sizes are on the move, hunting, mating, even fighting. In various regions, cactus flowers bloom, snakes travel, toads sing, northern lights flash, wolves howl, and turtles migrate en masse from sea to land. The dark world we so often ignore is an ocean of activity and intrigue.
Rather than miss out, I decided to give it one more try, and I headed for the Sonoran Desert on a moonless night. The lush landscape of cactus, bird song, and sweet smells after a rain is one of my favorite places. Yet I’ve never hiked there at night, probably for fear of bumping into a cactus.
After dinner, I struck out on a trail that wound up toward a mountain pass. I was guided by starlight only, but the trail became increasingly visible as the miles flew by. I tried to fix my gaze on a particular star to better utilize my peripheral vision. It felt like I was driving a car, looking at the trail ahead rather than what was underfoot. My feet felt their way over rocks and across gullies without faltering.
My senses awakened in the night air and I saw the darkened desert in a whole new light. The starlight cast colorless shades across the landscape. The saguaro were towering silhouettes, like giants with outstretched arms. Creosote bushes were aromatic gray puffs, and the teddy bear cholla were luminous white, every sharp spine gleaming in the nearly undetectable light.
I didn’t run into anything. I didn’t stumble. The only time I used my flashlight was to read a sign at a trail junction. I walked through pockets of cold air followed by warm, then through the strong, musky odor of javelina. I was having fun. I was finally enjoying night hiking because at last I believed I could do it, that I could see in the dark.
Then I remembered that bumbling Haunted Canyon trek years ago and how flustered I was. I couldn’t help but chuckle. You could say that back then, I was living in the dark ages.