I think loneliness is a barrier to experiencing solitude. Solitude is something I usually genuinely enjoy. This year (I think just as much as the next person) I have had to fight to enjoy any solitude. I have mostly felt stuck in situations and places I do not want to be, along with a very deep sense of loneliness.
I had a week off of work recently and did not know anyone else who had the same time off. In the state of being very depraved of human interaction, I decided to do a solo trip, naturally. The trip report said it would take about 3 days to complete the ride, there would be a number of water stops along the way, and that I would get to see some spectacular parts of Escalante National Monument. I didn’t really need much more convincing.
Excited and nervous, I sat out on the first day ready to tackle the 65 miles to Lake Powell. I am not sure the trip report necessarily took into account how early it gets dark in late November… now thinking about it, that bit was probably up to me.
Anyways, a few mountain passes and about ten hours later, I get to the campsite that was suppose to be on Lake Powell. Since it was about an hour after dark when I peddled into camp, naturally I had trouble seeing the water, I thought. Then I realized between the moon and my headlamp, I should at least be able to see the reflection of the water. Standing at the top of a inclined that appeared to once been a shore line, the only water I could make out looked to be abut 20ft below me, in mud puddles.
I was cold and didn’t really want to deal with the reality of only having 12 oz left, with the next water source being 10 miles away. Quickly, I thought of something else to occupy my mind; getting warm. Setting my bike down, I started to look for fire wood. As soon as I turned around, I saw them. Two eyes, about 50 yards way, staring directly back at me.
Sure, it was probably a deer, or maybe even a coyote… but my mind was not going to let me think that. For what felt like at least ten minutes I locked eyes with the reflections and my mind raced with thoughts like, “who’s idea was this!?”, “this was a terrible idea!”, “I wonder how many big cats are around here?” But most prominently, “this is not a safe place.” After some texting via my satellite GPS, to a friend who had been attacked by a bobcat, I decided to push on to the next, and only town on the loop. It would be about 3 hours, but the promise of water, a warm hotel bed and no cats was pretty tempting
About 20 minutes back up the canyon, I came across a corral. Placing my tin cup at one opening and my bike at the other, I was able to easy my mind enough to settle down for the night. With the sun having dipped below the landscape about 3 hours earlier, I was freezing. I set up camp quickly and ate spoonful’s of peanut butter for dinner to try and conserve water.
There was something exhilarating about getting on the bike the next morning. Maybe it was the since of urgency to replenish water, celebration of making it through the night, the soreness of my butt on the seat or knowing I had two full days of adventure a head of me. Whatever it was, it was a far cry from the apprehension of being stuck and self loathing I would have been feeling if I was at home, watching Netflix by myself.
for my friends who are moms 