As an outdoor writer, I’ve covered many topics ranging from the serious to the seriously light-hearted.  One thing I have never really tackled is the idea of solitude.

I haven’t approached this particular topic because of Classical Literature.  At some time the reader, along with this writer, was likely forced to sit during High School English class and digest such classics of solitude as Walden Pond.  Even as an outdoor scribe, I hate Thoreau.

While the book by Thoreau are often considered a masterpiece of the genre, I think the author was at least a misanthrope or at worst, a paranoid delusional maniac.  His writing is disjointed and, while insightful at times, it only makes profound sense to college literature professors who actively participate in recreational pharmacology.

A better example of solitude essays are the books of Edward Abbey.  He was also crabby and mistrustful but seems to have a good handle on reality as his observations on the life and death struggles of the other species on this planet.  He’s also dead now.

I plan to live a little while longer but I have refrained from writing on this topic because such opinions often sound exceptionally self-important when expressed on paper, as if the author had finally discovered The Hidden Truth of Life.  Unfortunately, I haven’t discovered any such heavy philosophical answers to the big questions while swatting at black flies or falling into rancid swamp mud.  I have learned a few things, one of which is: solitude is a major reason for going to the outdoors.

While I generally enjoy the company of friends and even the occasional stranger, there are times when being alone in the outdoors is the only remedy for the occasional 90-mile-per-hour fastball that life throws at your head.

There was a time when I was younger when being alone outdoors felt like an admission that I had no friends, at least none that could drop everything on a moments notice to go fishing.  As I got older, I began to realize that going out while alone was different from group outings but the rewards were often were deeper and more intense.  Like a learning to appreciate a good bourbon or cigar, I began to savor those times when there was no one standing between me and the experience of the outdoors.

Being with companions while outdoors is wonderful but the focus of the trip is on the social interaction of the trip rather than the experiences with nature itself.  When a friend is present, the rules of conversation require that you agree, disagree, argue, cajole, praise and offer insight on every action and situation.  When alone, there is no such distraction to the experience and the only comment comes silently from inside your head.

When by yourself, there is a greater sense of seriousness that makes one more sensitive to the small things.  The simple act of wading a creek is approached in a more critical and somber mood when alone because you know that even a sprained ankle becomes a far bigger problem when there is no partner to help you walk out or call for assistance.

Once you are being more attentive to moss-slicked rocks and deep water that could cause a nasty fall, you begin to notice other things.  You see the textures of the bottom, the unknown dappled shadows that scurry from your approach.  You move slower and more deliberate.  Your thoughts start to match the pace, slowing from the constant stream of thought that resembles a 24-hour news channel to a more rational pace that allows you to resolve the issues that have been waiting in the mental In-basket.

With no distraction from a companion, you are free to confront the deeper problems that make daily life such a tedious and backbreaking proposition.  With every outdoor sport, there are long periods of waiting that allow for concordance and appositions to rant and rave inside, hopefully resulting in resolution or at least accommodation.

Returning home from a solitary trip, you find yourself not necessarily unhappy but not really overjoyed; not somber but not really jovial either.  The trip, however, will have been worthwhile because you find yourself calm and more deliberate with a better perspective of all those little things that seemed so insurmountable as you were pulling out of the driveway.

Upon returning, you can face the days or weeks until the next trip.  You understand that whatever is happening seems trivial when compared to the endless tumbling of a river rock or the wobbly first steps of a newborn fawn.  Regardless of worldly problems, you know the rock will keep moving toward the ocean and the fawn will someday have a fawn of its own.  With this new, clear perspective comes inner peace.

I can’t think of a better reason to go outdoors.

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