The art of solitude

Last summer, I successfully climbed 15 High Peaks and countless smaller mountains. Having grown weary of trying to convince others to join me, I spent the majority of my time exploring the Adirondacks alone.  People hear this and are quick to show their surprise at such an endeavor.  “You mean, you spent that much time, out there, alone?”  Yes, I did, and it taught me the difference between loneliness and solitude.

Looking toward the Flowed Lands from Mount Colden. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

In my mind, finding something that truly brings joy is a precious thing.  Hiking has that effect on me; I am always happy when I am in the woods.  It was lonesome at first, seeing all of this beauty and having no one to share it with, and yet I felt drawn to it.  I came to terms with the fact that if I wanted to be out there, I had to go no matter what.

The first few solo hikes were strange.  I found myself hurrying along to give myself more time just in case something happened.  I became nervous when I saw clouds rolling in, and every skinned knee felt like a warning that next time, it could be my skull bouncing off that rock.  Arriving at my destination brought a sense of accomplishment, until I realized that the journey was only half over.  I still had to make it back. 

Persistence is a terrible disease of mine.  I could not let fear, or loneliness, stop me from being close to something that felt so good.  Spring melted into summer, and I continued to hit the trails.  As the days grew longer, I discovered that I was no longer calling everyone I could think of, looking for a partner.  My pace on the trails slowed, affording me the opportunity to look around, into the forest  instead of at the obstacles at my feet.  I was becoming comfortable out there, and it felt good.

As I opened up to my surroundings, they welcomed me in the gentlest of ways.  Life began to spring forth from every granite stone, every rotten snag, every fern grove.  It swam in the waters, dove from the sky, and peeked at me from the most unlikely of places.  There I was, surrounded by nature, standing waist deep in John’s Brook with the hot summer sun warming the frigid water that was dripping down my chest.  I had found my peace, but the loneliness of solitude remained.

It was sometime in July when I decided to make the 12-mile loop over Mount Colden. The day was pleasant and warm, with occasional bands of clouds slowly rolling by overhead.  I made the summit and relaxed, facing the Flowed Lands as I wrote and enjoyed the view.  Over the course of an hour, the clouds thickened, and I decided it was time to head back.  As I descended Colden’s smaller summit, I stopped to take a drink and noticed there was an inchworm on my shoulder.  A stowaway!  I let it climb onto my finger and watched as it crawled along.  It was then that I realized that I was not alone.  I set the inchworm down and saw my surroundings in a new light.  I no longer just looked at the life around me, I recognized it.  

As I continued walking back, toward Adirondak Loj, every turn of the trail put me in touch with something familiar.  At the time I was unable to identify them by name, but they were there.  The smell of balsam fir, the trillium that add artist’s strokes to the forest floor, the knock knock knock of the pileated woodpecker.  There was a hint of rain in the air, and I could hear the leaves above me shivering.  I have always felt an uncanny sense of energy in the forest, and as I made my retreat, I realized why.  The energy does not come from me; it comes from the life that surrounds me. 

So now, when people tell me they can’t join me on my next excursion, I tell them it’s OK.  I no longer tell them I’ll be going alone.  Instead, I tell them I’m going to visit a few close friends, and I’m fine with that.  My pace on the trail has slowed considerably, and I now find myself enjoying every nuance of the forest.  Sure, the view at the end is inspiring, but it is the experience of being in nature that I find most rewarding.  I am forever indebted to the Adirondacks because they have taught me something I will never forget: With so much life around us, we are never truly alone in this world.