Alone but Not Lonely

Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky Way?

Henry David Thoreau

When I first started hiking alone in my early twenties people asked me a lot of questions, on and off the trail. There were alway two consistent themes: The first was, “Aren’t you afraid?” That was not hard to answer. Of course I was afraid, and I still am from time to time. Scary things happen on the trail. You come around a switchback, and there is a mama bear with two cubs in front of you. You find the trail has been washed out, and a precarious climb lies between you and your destination.

These days a new fear has crept into my repertoire. What if I fall and break a bone, and I am all alone out there with no one to help me? Of course I am afraid, and I should be, but it has never kept me from doing what I want to do. Someone will come along and find my crumpled body. That is all the assurance I need.

The second question which comes up almost as often is this, “Don’t you get lonely?” The answer is always simple enough, “No.” Then the puzzled looks demand an explanation.

I am certainly no stranger to loneliness, having lived alone for most of my adult life. When my twin daughters left home at eighteen, I felt the oppressive grief that occurs when the house aches with its new emptiness, unfamiliar and strange. I still sit down from time to time in the evening and look at my dog and cat, reminded that they are the only company I have, and most of the time that is just fine. They are easy to get along with. They love me unconditionally. This is not so bad. How could I be lonely?

But on the trail? I have everything I need. The trail becomes my companion, and it constantly has something new to tell me, like a really good friend. The trail and I engage in a kind of dialogue. I ask questions. It answers. We get along just fine. How could I be lonely?

As a child we often returned to the same campground year after year; thus there was a familiarity I looked forward to every summer: Staircase Rapids, Spirit Lake, the Dosewallips. I knew all these places well, and I felt that they knew me. When we arrived in camp and the chores were completed I would often retreat to a quiet place. . .a grove of sheltering western hemlock trees, a bend in the river with a sandbar on which I would stand. Even then I was seeking solitude it seems. There I would tell the river and the trees what was going on in my life. . .how much I hated long division, how much I liked my new friends and saddle shoes. I would listen for the river voices, and they would never let me down. I was being welcomed back to this beautiful place. How could I be lonely?

This sense of familiarity is still there for me when I start on a backpacking trip, even when I am hiking the trail for the first time. I am back on the trail, doing the thing I love most. How could I be lonely?