Hiking alone is a particular kind of assertion of
independence. You are telling nature you respect it, but you don’t need any
kind of barrier or buffer between you. You are not afraid to be lost. When you
hike alone, you can let your eyes wander to discover what you’ve never paid
attention to before. As you pass the time, you are forced to be alone with your
thoughts, regardless of whether you like those thoughts or not. Awareness is more tuned
in, since safety must be top priority. But a side effect of being hyperaware of
the people around you is that you are on the receiving end of smiles, hellos, and
waves that you may not have received otherwise.
As you travel deeper, you meet fewer people, and the
quietness settles in. You begin to wonder if you are the only human being left
on this trail, by this river, in this town, on this planet. You get a little
jolt of adrenaline when you do pass someone, and you question where in the world he
or she came from? Did they start on one side of the continent and you on the
other side, and this is the crossroads that has allowed the only two humans left on the planet to meet for a fraction of a moment?
If you’re like me, you seek out water whenever possible on
these adventures. Water is serenity, life. It not only sustains your body, it
refreshes your spirit. If you hear it rushing, trickling, splashing, you
swiftly search for the source. If you’d been with someone, you might’ve missed
the small mossy alcove of rocks and branches, a stream gurgling happily amongst
the crevasses and wood. Streams that cross the trail can be forged with a
purposeful leap, and an ability to laugh at yourself when you miss and fall in.
So many things are more noticeable alone. The lizard sunning
himself on the rock near you as you sit and listen to the river current. The
pop of fuchsia in a sea of green and brown forest. Two butterflies twirling and
twining around each other, playing in the wind eddies, joyful in their flight
and togetherness. The echoes that bounce off canyon walls and the surface of
the water. The feel of your feet climbing the trail, rocks tumbling with each step,
the dirt sliding in the damp shadows.
In the end, coming back to the trailhead is truly coming
back to reality, coming back to the world. As you get closer, you begin to
remember you are not the only person on this trail, in this town, on this
planet, and you have a life outside of these woods. As you head back to
civilization, the cacophony of sounds can be deafening, and you find yourself
already planning your next hike, your next sojourn into the place where the
rest of the world doesn’t exist. You are not a hermit; you enjoy the company of
your friends and family immensely, and hiking with friends has its own charm
and sparkle. But hiking alone becomes a blessing and a need, and you make plans
to do it as often as you can.
