Going Solo: Solitude Sharpens Senses For A Woman In The Wilderness

Asolo backpacking trip in the Cascades: the idea taunted and intrigued. I was experienced enough. I could build a fire with wet wood, stake down a tent in a windstorm, walk a narrow log across a glacial torrent, and chase away bears with clanging aluminum.

There were as many good reasons to dismiss the idea. Solitude isn't my calling. Alone in the house for more than a few hours, I usually pick up the telephone. Bravery isn't my hallmark. I get nervous walking up my driveway after dark.

In the end, the choice lay with the irresistible lure of Mount Rainier, pink at dusk about the Seattle skyline.

The reward was awareness. Being alone prompted me to observe the wilderness with an alert eye and an attuned ear. To my eventual delight, I gained a heightened awareness of both surroundings and self. The solitude challenged me to face true feelings, to acknowledge vulnerabilities, and to confront and overcome fears.

As a girl, I'd spent many happy summer hours backpacking with family and friends. But in my adult life I despaired of finding a trekking partner.

My husband, a Boston city boy, prefers bridge games to log bridges. My women friends lack the interest or time.

I looked into some outdoor travel adventures. Not on my budget.

I scanned the bulletin board at REI for someone looking for a hiking companion. Nothing.

"Alone? That sounds pretty dangerous," several of my friends cautioned.

"I don't think I could do it," said a woman friend.

My mother tried to talk me out of it: "There were two girls from Germany killed just last week."

"Where?" I asked. "On a backpacking trip?"

"I don't know. Somewhere . . . Call me as soon as you get back."

Their fears fluttered through my mind as I trudged up the steep forest path in Mount Rainier National Park.

Back at the Carbon River ranger station I'd felt showy and brave when I oh-so-casually requested a back-country permit "for one, please."

I'd gloated with self-assurance when a plumpish woman with a day pack asked, "You're going out all by yourself?" while her plumpish male companion looked on impressed.

But four hours later, alone on the trail, this display of bravado seemed foolish and false.

The Sunday parade of galloping boy scouts, hand-clasping newly weds and parents wishing their kids were on leashes had quickly thinned after the first two miles. Now I rarely saw another hiker. Lacking an audience, I no longer could play-act bravery. Apprehensions surfaced.

I realized I was out of shape.

I strained under the weight of my backpack. One disadvantage of solo hiking, my shoulders discovered, is that one must carry all furnishings and utensils oneself.

My pack weighed 45 pounds - a good 10 pounds more than I'd ever carried before. Adding my boots and the camera around my neck, I was lugging more than 50 pounds up a 3,000-foot rise.

I wondered if I'd make it to my campsite before dark.

When hiking with friends, a lively chatter can help to distract one from fatigue. For distraction, I focused on my surroundings - sounds, in particular.

The most noticeable ones were those I made myself: the soft, repetitive thud of my boots on the pine-needle path; the swish-swash of my hip belt rubbing against my pack frame; the brush of my pant legs crossing with each slow step; the metallic rattle of buckles and clips on my pack; and the slosh of my water bottle.

My pace commanded their rhythm; together they formed a soothing musical quintet.

I then realized that the ears, like the eyes, can alter their field of focus - with long- and short-distance perception options. I zoomed out my aural lens and observed the roar of the Carbon River (now a good 2,000 feet below). My ears spied the wind whistling through leaves, and a medley of bird calls.

Above, a loud creaking sound - like footsteps in an old attic - startled me. It triggered an impulsive fear. In my mind's eye, I saw the entire forest crashing down.

Looking up, I saw only a tree swaying ever so slightly. It creaked. Another tree groaned. And another emitted a high-pitched whine.

"Oh, the trees are talking," I decided. The thought made me feel more at home in the forest, as if, perhaps, the trees were communicating with me.

I whistled, to show I appreciated their gesture of friendship.

My whistle was met by another - a sharp, brazen hoot. It jolted me out of complacency. For a fraction of an instant, I saw men's faces leaning from open car windows.

It was only a marmot, of course. I was responding with urban-trained instincts.

Although my instincts betrayed my city roots, they were roused and sharpened by the wilderness.

Frequently I'd jump at some rustle in the brush. My racing mind would register some vague threat. Then a chipmunk would scamper off, as startled as I by the intrusion.

I realized I'd become like a forest animal - ears perked, reacting intuitively to each auditory cue.

Stopping to rest at the turn of a switchback, I heard a dull thumping. A tremor of panic ran through me.

A stampeding herd of elk?

Bears?

My heart beat wildly. Rapidly, I pushed on up the trail. The thumping grew louder. The thumping matched my pounding pulse.

I was startling at my own heartbeat.

A trail sign - my campsite - helped restore my perspective.

The last thing I expected to find at the campsite was another lone woman. But there was Becky, a back-country ranger.

Instantly, my concocted fears seemed as foolish as my earlier bravado.

Becky, who had studied theology and taught aerobics in the off-season, seemed to have that mixture of reflectiveness and hardiness the back-country job required. She was living five days a week in a lone log cabin, nine miles from the nearest road.

"All by yourself?" I asked, with wide-eyed admiration.

"Are you doing the trail by yourself?" she asked, returning admiration.

Like the sight of one's image reflected in a pond, her presence was a confirmation. Her confidence buoyed mine.

"But, you know, now that I've tried hiking by myself, I don't think it's anything special," she said later as we shared popcorn. "I don't really buy that Lone Ranger myth. I've looked at the logbooks of the rangers who've been here over the last few years: they were always glad to have company."

I was glad to have company, too. But I had to disagree with Betty. There is something special about hiking alone.

Over the next two days, I grew more comfortable with my surroundings. I cataloged the different sounds of the forest and no longer startled at the familiar ones.

I began to enjoy the combination of solitude on the trail and companionship at the campsite. (In peak season, it's rare to have a campsite to oneself.)

Alone on the trail, I enjoyed having the freedom to set my own pace, to decide on impulse to stop for a photo or to lumber down a side trail in search of bigger, juicier huckleberries.

Thinking back to previous hikes with friends, I remember mainly sweat and chatter between grand viewpoints. I'd registered cliffs, lakes and mountains - but I'd scarcely noticed the details along the way.

By myself I had the time to record details, to give them labels and mental pictures that would help me recall them afterwards.

I've experienced a similar heightened awareness in other forms of solo travel. Although the events occurred more than 10 years ago, I can still vividly recall my first solo subway ride in New York City, one precious day spent alone in Paris, and an unaccompanied journey across the English Channel.

Then, too, I'd felt some tinge of fear. But certainly a lone traveler is somewhat vulnerable anywhere - wilderness or civilization.

I realize now that my fear was mainly the vague, intuitive discomfort of being in unfamiliar circumstances.

Such fear has its own rewards. Unfamiliarity heightens the senses and awakens the imagination. Travel is most fulfilling when it transports us out of the world of the predictable and into the world of the unknown.

Lauren Goldman Marshall is a Seattle playwright and freelance writer.