Going Solo, One More Time

August 2004


Day One: Entry

It is my first night out. I unpack my backpack only to find a note from Rich, my beloved life-partner, which reads: “Have a great trip. I love you.” He snuck it for me to find while I would be in the woods; tears form in my eyes. Just a few months back, as I was putting photos in albums, I stumbled upon pictures of the solo backpacking trip I had done five years ago in the Pecos Wilderness. It then dawned on me that five years was a very long time since I had set foot alone in the woods for a week, and that realization perturbed me. Time flies, I thought. We were supposed to be spending this upcoming week together, but upon this insight, I suggested it would be best if I were alone. He fully supported my adventure, with mild envy.

Wherever I go, I have a three-pile system when packing my necessities. The first one is all the items I cannot live without, the second are items I would like to bring, and the third are the items I might want to bring along for fun or comfort, luxury items, which is a very loose term depending on the circumstance.

For an obscure reason, my first pile of essentials has grown steadily larger by each backpacking trip. Pillow. Sandals. Water filter. Cookies. One air mattress (in addition to the foam pad). Tent. Chocolate covered espresso beans. Walking poles. Pee pot. Extra fuel bottle. Sunglasses. Water pouch. Camera. Bathing suit. Extra book. Chocolate covered blueberries. Sunscreen. I must carry at least twenty pounds more than I used to twenty years ago. To add on my list: Tiger Balm for sore shoulders.

Going backpacking solo for a week requires a healthy dose of masochism. The first few days the pack is heavy and my legs wobbly. As I grow stronger, paradoxically, the pack becomes lighter. This time, I feel pain on body parts I never even know existed.


Day Two

I am terrified of bears. Just before I left, our friend Phil lent me a book about them. I read it cover to cover. I now feel more knowledgeable and understanding, however, every bit of information in that book confirmed my deepest fears. I bought a bear-proof canister, but unfortunately, because of the dog food (really!), the food supplies don’t all fit in and have an extra bag I need to hang, at least for a couple of nights. I set my food bag by the book. It is beautiful; ten feet off the ground, five feet away from other branches. Just as the sun rose, we hear a loud ‘crack’, which made me believe a smart daring bear had successfully reached my stash. Méo and I get up, curious. The food is still hanging. We didn’t see any bears and haven’t yet figured out what made that loud noise.

After a night of rain and a too sudden premature rise, I decide to go back and lounge in the tent. Mesmerized by the rain drops, I also listen to Méo snoring louder and louder under my sleeping bag. I had invited him in during the night, as he sat up from his sleep, shivering of cold. Now I hear him snoring and his dog breath warms up my cheek. Tonight I will put his coat on just in case. I stretch, and try to get up. I feel sore muscles I hardly use any other time. The multitudes of all these new feelings of soreness make me feel old. Twenty years have gone by since my first solo outing in the wilderness. I thought back then that I had all the time in the world. Now I feel I am on a count down.

Traveling in the valleys translates into mud, lots of mud, like the wilderness-savvy Hardie warned me. At first, I patiently hop from rock to rock, or detour in the forest fighting against the branches, just to end up stepping in the mud anyways. I decide to make good use of my new gaiters and merrily swish through, ankle deep. I am the first one on the trail this morning as I undo the night’s work of hundreds of spiders criss-crossing the trail.

Life as I know it is left behind. There is just the now. I let the thoughts go by like clouds. Moving one step in front of the other, concentrating on my breath, trying to forget the burning between my shoulder blades.

At the end of the day, happily back into my sleeping bag, I write in my journal and vigilantly inscribe the day of the week on the top of the page to make sure I don’t forget when I need to be out and return to life. The moon sheds a mild light as I lay awake on my back, listening to the loons on the lake, the gushing sounds of the waterfall nearby, and my snoring dog who now farts deadly ones in my small tent.


Day Three

All morning, I keep repeating to myself somewhat in vain, “Never walk on wet roots or wet man-made structures”. As I set my foot on the planks laid across a severely wet section of the trail, I barely have time to put my weight and quickly end up on my back, stranded. I will never turn a turtle on its back for the fun of it. Not any more. After sinking elbow deep in the mud, I wonder if my watch is as waterproof as the small print on it claims and manage to get back on my feet. I now look at the boards with fierce resolve and proceed to cross, slowly.

When my thoughts have nowhere to go, with really nothing to attend to, they race in every direction, before settling down, usually by day four or five of a solo trip. When I do not have to be focused on my footsteps, I hear music and lyrics I didn’t even knew I knew, hear hits from the fifties, sixties, seventies and today, including TV show jingles such as Batman. I watch, in awe, the Niagara Falls of thoughts flowing in my mind and judge not. Some memories go by, some fears, some dreams, all flow steadily, between the moments where I need to be focused on the mud, which are now more frequents than those of free flowing thoughts.

When I see a nice big rock or the trunk of a fallen tree, waist-high, I rest my pack on it and relieve my back and shoulder of its weight. I learned this simple trick from the Nepalese, who carry on their backs more than their own weight and perfected the art of resting without taking their loads off by creating “rest spots” at the end of steep hills, hip high rock walls. I try to rest as often as I can or need.

Reaching my destination is not as important any more. Enjoying the journey in getting there is more significant. I like to savor the silence of the woods, the bubbly sound of the brook, the rain falling on the leaves of the trees high above.

Mud as become a conversation piece among the hikers I run into. On any given day, the usual trail questions are “How are you?” to “How far is…?” to “Is there anyone in the lean-to?”. Now the questions are “How is the condition of the trail ahead?” Mud. “And from where you came from?” Mud. “What about on the other side of the mountain?” Mud “A lot of mud??” Yes. Lots of M-U-D. Other times, there is the occasional comment, without a question, such as “I’ve never seen so much mud.” or “I can’t believe how much mud there is.” And mud there is, as it has rained almost daily this summer here. The soil is soaked and so are my boots now.

The mushrooms are blooming in every corner of the forest. They are short, tall, luminescent, red, purple, orange, brown, white, yellow, penis and umbrella-shaped. All kinds of mushrooms are thriving in this wet environment. I take pictures of them. When I get to the umbrella-shaped one, I notice that the camera’s battery is low. How many more photographs will I be able to take before it dies? One more thing to add on my list…

When I get to my camping spot, I take my load off and head out to the lake. Swimming at the end of a long backpacking day shaves the last five miles off my body. Feeling rejuvenated, I look forward to a hot meal and rest.

I turn my boots upside down and a small puddle forms under them… I have surrendered to the reality that my feet will be wet for the remaining of the trip, unfortunately.

With Méo, I don’t feel alone. I know he will alert me of the presence of others, humans or animals, and that fact comforts me. Truly alone, I can only rely on my limited senses. He also travels twice the distance as I do, going on off-trail excursions and terrorizing chipmunks. He is too small to carry a dog pack. I carry more than my share, as his food for a week adds up.

My senses are waking up by each passing day. The moist forest delivers a multitude of new scents and delicate aromas, some of which I am starting to identify. Today I thought I could smell rain. The forest bottom littered with pine needles has the sweetest smell of all. Shade and sun have different smells too. And mud, there is now and forever a very large imprint in my brain of the scent of mud. The hikers I cross who are fresh from civilization smell of soap, antiperspirants, and fabric softeners. Their smells linger for a long time. I don’t like it. They probably don’t like my smell either, which has grown steadily by day, despite rinsing off by day’s end my sweat and salt.

While eating dinner, I watch hummingbirds getting their very own, in a nearby wildflower patch. One by one they come, and sometimes argue over feeding territorial rights.


Day Four

My body finally surrendered to the task, as my pack got magically lighter, since half the food is already eaten (which helps). I have also started fantasizing about food I can actually chew. Dehydrated foods are lighter, but when they get re-hydrated, they tend to all end up with a similar texture: mushy. Baby food grows old after a few days. Today however, I am looking forward to lunch, as I am having the teriyaki beef jerky that Rich made and is the best I have ever tasted.

The dehydrated milk I brought to mix with my granola for breakfast is lumpy, despite doing my very best to mix it. This morning I decide to use hot water instead, in the hope that it will be easier to dilute. This is a big mistake. It is a lot worse. I miss my vanilla soymilk, enriched with calcium, and vitamins. I never drink cow’s milk. I don’t like it, except on the trail, which is better than mixing granola with water. My thoughts wander back to a week earlier, when I was shopping at my local health food store, where I had to choose between the organic and non-organic dehydrated cow’s milk. The organic one required the use of a blender, but not the non-organic. Or so they said. Frustrated, I skip the cereal and decide to eat the chocolate covered blueberries, even though they were meant for dessert after dinner.

Women are usually the ones asking me if I am alone. Men never ask. I usually answer that I have a trail companion, and point at Méo. In their eyes he doesn’t count for much though and do not see how much he makes a difference. He does. I have a being that I look after and who looks after me. We relate. Alone, you have no beings to relate to, except for the others you encounter on the trail. I have backpacked alone and it is very different. I went days sometimes without uttering a single word. I had only myself to be contented or discontent with. I don’t feel lonely in my solitude with Méo.

Of course I am alone, in the human being sense of aloneness. That is why I am so slow on the trail. I have no allowances for getting hurt. Every step counts. Every. I have noticed that the second I lose my focus, I slip or I miss a step, I get out of sync. I stop, breathe deeply and start again. It is a walking meditation.

Backpacking solo is about ownership. Owning which pace I go. When I stop. How long. How often. Owning each footstep, whether going up or down. Ownership of whether I decide to pursue or not, and why.

I have yet to figure out what is worse: Trying to avoid the mud by contouring it, thus increasing the erosion and compounding the problem, or walking straight into in, ankle deep and sometimes deeper. Undecided, I sometimes choose to walk through it, sometimes around it. Both require a lot of energy. My boots are so soaked that they now weigh five pounds each. The cold water swishing around my toes take an hour to warm up in the morning.

There are so many humans on this mountaintop tonight that I feel as if I am at a public campground. I long for solitude. Maybe tomorrow night?


Day Five

Twenty years ago, I used to get up with the sun and hit the trail by seven. Now I sleep in and let my laziness be. I can’t “get up and go” as it reminds me too much of my day-to-day life. I linger in the tent and savor it. I cuddle Méo and fall back asleep. This morning he fell back asleep before me, his head on my shoulder, his dog breath flowing in my neck, snoring. This is the closest to dog heaven he will ever get until he dies, I think.

The first time I became aware of backpacking as an activity, it was with my old boyfriend Melvin who had taken me for a day hike in the Green Mountains. On top of Mount Mansfield, the highest peak of Vermont, despite the rain, the clouds, and no views, I was hooked. A few weeks later, with my new hiking boots laced tightly, I hit the trail with my black Labrador, Hito, for what I thought would be a six-day adventure on the Long Trail, which runs through Vermont from Canada to Connecticut. By day three I was so enthralled that I took our last three-day worth of supplies and subdivided it in half so we could double the days of our journey . Needless to say, we got hungry and we both lost weight. Lots of weight. Although I vowed to bring enough food for a longer journey next time so I do not wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach growling, I loved every second of it.

For the next few years, I set out once every summer and backpacked in my beloved Greens of Vermont. These weeklong adventures prepared me well for a two-month journey into Nepal and Tibet. Then I got married, had children, and although I did manage to go out once during that time, it wasn’t until I got divorced that I got back out again few more times. I have kept the last 20 miles of the Long Trail to do with my kids, someday, I hope.

Now, being in the Adirondacks High Peaks Wilderness is a new adventure. There is a feeling of remoteness I longed for and am finding hard to get as a result of the multitude of others. I try to make room within myself for tolerance.

Every day after dinner, I bathe Méo to get rid of the mud he has up to his chin. He is a little dog, but he his holding his own. He has gotten used to the tempo by now. At first he would run everywhere. He has soon learned that we are here to stay for some time and is now following my footstep, going a lot slower than he is used to. After bathing him in the river, he shivers. I use his towel to absorb the water, and use a comb to untangle his hair of twigs, grass, and mud clumps. He enjoys this nightly ritual. Today we are in the sun, and he slowly stops shivering, relaxing as I put him on his back to clean up his belly. At night, I put on his blue coat. Little dogs can get away with wearing blue coats with light reflectors on them. At night, he is no longer “Toto, the trail dog”, but my very own little Méo, who snores.

The sun has set not long ago behind the mountain. Glimpses of dusk are lingering. Nightfall is different from a mountaintop. I am glad to be out of the valleys. The moon is setting also now, slowly. Some stars are beginning to appear. The night is still, the air is motionless, just the distant sound of the brook remains, which helped me shed fives miles just a little earlier.

I make myself comfortable. I take out my sleeping bag, position myself on my back so I can watch the stars come in one by one through the opening of the tent door. When was the last time I watched the rise of the night like this? I will have to remember to remember.

As I lay on my back, my very wet socks are hanging above my head on a makeshift clothesline inside my small tent, created with a glimmer of hope that they may dry, even just a bit. I just don’t understand why they smell so much. I am glad to be alone, with a dog who doesn’t mind my smells as I am learning to live with his, and is now sound asleep, snoring.

I read for a while and then shut off my headlamp. Total darkness now surrounds me. Millions of stars are shimmering. The Big Dipper is hanging over Mt. Colden, barely holding on. I feel like sleeping with my head outside the tent. Then I remember the entry in the log, in the nearby lean-to. Visits of bears have been nightly. I change my mind, regrettably.

Just as I am about to fall asleep, Méo wakes up and wants to go out. Nature calls, I suppose. I open the zipped door and he goes to his bowl to drink. A lot. He trots back in, trailing some mud from his paws, and goes back to sleep, snoring. I have always envied the guys’ bladder, and still do so now.


Day Six

I can see some sun touching the tent. I am delighted. This morning I will set out with my daypack to climb up Mt Colden and have some views of the High Peaks! I prepare breakfast and almost forget to use cold water, not hot, and leave the tent up so the morning dew can dry. I also don’t want to waste any time packing. With great anticipation that the sun’s warmth will make magic, I set up a clothesline between two trees and hang my soggy socks and the wet towels, mine and Méo’s. I sacrifice my only dry pair of socks, hoping that upon my return, the other one will be dry. I gather lunch food. I crave salt today, and am looking forward to eat my pistachio nuts on top.

This morning I am tired as I didn’t sleep so well last night. The clear night had brought some cool air and Méo was shivering, despite wearing his coat. I was not really warm enough myself to surrender part of my sleeping bag to him, so I instead let him sleep on my Gore-Tex pants in the hope that it would help him be warmer. It did.

As I begin my hike, I feel a new twinge in my left knee, the good one, and I wonder what it could be. I am worried. I walk slowly, very slowly. In fact, I am walking so slowly that any slower and I will be standing still. I am taking baby steps, waiting for my muscles to wake and warm up. I am focused on my knees. Have I been compensating with my good knee? Probably. Now I am vigilant to make sure I alternate the demands of the ups and downs, navigating around the mud and stepping onto logs. My head is looking down, at where I position my feet and poles. I am glad to be four legged.

When I finally pause, I look up and notice fog moving up quickly from the valley. By the time I am almost to the top, mashed potatoes surround the mountain. I am so disappointed that there will be no views that I stop, sit, and look at the map. I surrender my idea of going to the top and take out my pistachio nuts. Unsalted. I put them back in my bag and eat a granola bar instead.My spirit is strong, willing to continue with my journey two more days until the end of the week, but my body is tired. I assess my options. I decide to make my last day tomorrow and head back home.

I go back to camp and pack up. We have eaten most of the food and my backpack still feels heavy. It must be the 2.5 lbs of the bear-proof canister that I am carrying my food into. Or my growing list of “essentials”. Whatever it is, it weighs.

My socks are still very damp, but not wet anymore. Now I do not have any dry socks. I hate having wet or cold feet, let alone both simultaneously. I’ll have to add another item to my ever-expanding list.

I only have a few miles to go to the next lean-to, which is a good thing since I am moving slowly. I am not in a particular hurry either, which helps. I get to my second destination for the day, Lake Tear of the Clouds. Somehow in my imagination I created this image of a turquoise glacier-like lake, nested at the foot of giant Mt. Marcy. It is a very plain little gray lake, with no view of Marcy today. I take a picture nevertheless, my first one since my mushroom spree, so I can show my kids the farthest water source of the Hudson River watershed.

My last destination is in a gorge, at the feet of the Haystack Mountains. I am relieved to take my pack off. I read the logbook. There are too many nighttime bear activities to make me feel comfortable. Besides, I am finally alone, the only human around, and for several miles. All of a sudden, I am glad I have been carrying my newly purchased $80, 2.5 lbs bear proof canister.

As usual, I head out to the brook; wash Méo who doesn’t want to get in (smart dog). The water cascades into a hip deep pool, bottomed with huge polished rocks. I see myself sitting in this pool, washing away the day’s last five miles. I get in and as I walk slowly to the magical spot, my feet and calves get numb. I change my mind and rinse off quickly instead. I now understand why Méo gave me a dirty look and growled as I washed the mud off his belly.

I unpack. I hang my old wet socks. They are starting to rot. I hang my new wet socks, hoping they will not absorb the humidity that is filling in the air. As I prepare dinner, Méo bolts out suddenly and barks aggressively. I am hoping his wolf genes are not too far behind. After an hour of this dance, he finally sits back to relax. Meanwhile, I have gathered enough rocks to kill or maim a bear.

After reading for a while, legs up on the walls of the lean-to, I step inside the tent. My feet are cold. I put my gloves on my feet, carefully placing each toe inside each finger space. Suddenly, I am ten years old, putting my multicolored fashionable socks on, with individual placement for the toes. As I glimpse back into the seventies, I smile. My monkey-feet, albeit uncomfortable, are warmer now.

Méo keeps growling every now and then. At first, my breath would stop, my heart would race, and I’d look suspiciously towards the pitch black forest in fear. Now his growls comfort me. I know he is on high alert, so I don’t need to.

In the comfort of my den, I feel safe. Although a mere layer of nylon separates me from the outside world, here is my haven. I have positioned the rocks outside the door and a pole, just in case. Whatever happens happens.

I hear the brook far below, smell the moisture in the air. I am subdued to the fact that it will be raining again tonight and possibly tomorrow.

This is my last night. I am finally all alone in this gorge with no one around for miles. I like the feeling of remoteness. I will have to come back in the winter, when humans (and bears) hibernate.

I have found what I wanted. I am ready to go home.