A Week of Solitude in the Forest – Deep Connection with Earth

The lake below started for me as a small blue marking on a map surrounded by green.

“I wonder if I could get there!”

There were no trails leading in and, in searching the internet, I found no information about the lake.

“Perhaps this is where I could be alone.”

But I was afraid. The maps showed a steep climb from 3,000 feet up to 4,000 and back down and these were lands I was unfamiliar with.

What took me over the edge of the fear was the support of a friend who knew the region and provided insight on the land. With joy and eagerness, he agreed to not only bring me to the trailhead, not only walk the three miles up the trail with me, but enter into and navigate the uncharted forest that led us to this peak. In fact, he wanted to walk all the way to the lake together, but we both had hugely underestimated the task, and found ourselves on the mountain ridge capturing our first glance of the lake from far above at 7 p.m., with just two hours to sunset at 9 p.m. The ultimate freedom, solitude and silence lay ahead. For tonight, it would be safest to make camp on the mountaintop until daybreak, with a stunning view of the Mount Olympic glaciers. Daniel returned to his wife and young child and I was left alone, with myself and deep forest as far as my eyes could see.

Daniel Shyles had his camera and captured these photos on our walk in.

Being summer on the Olympic Peninsula, the sun rose upon the mountain at 5:30 a.m.
A night of solitude had already provided me with some of what I was seeking, but I had a reason to get to the lake. I had no water left, and I was quite thirsty. The lake would provide me with an excellent source of clean water to quench my thirst and nourish my cells. I would not be at ease until I arrived at the lake, my true refuge for the week.

The journey down was an adventure of its own. I came across a small pond, just a couple feet deep in the center. This source of life, clear as could be, pulled me in and held on for hours. Here, I observed newts with a level of intimacy that I never had in 37 years. Standing on a rock in the pond, I counted 34 newts within sight at once. I watched them for multiple hours — including the newt tadpoles, a first for me — while I filtered my water for drinking and cooked my first meal of wild rice.

On I continued through numerous micro-climates of dry rocky cliffs to lush creek beds. Each with their own communities of diverse plants. I navigated steep slopes, occasionally kicking a rock and listening to it fall through the forest to the depth below. The trees supported me as I forged my own switchbacks, finding the regions that were the least steep and safest to travel through.

By noon (I was guessing, as I had no clock to tell the time) the anxiety and the anticipation lessened as the slopes leveled out and I was eye level with the lake. At the shores of this body of water, I knew that I was on the precipice of entering a twenty-year goal. No other human would enter this space. Nobody would find me here.

What I experienced here was seven nights of solitude, not a single sight or sound of another human body or voice. I had no computer, no phone, no way to reach the outside world or to be reached. I had no electronics, not even a headlamp and never saw the lights of satellites or planes in the sky.

I had 6.5 pounds of wild rice and a very modest amount of dried venison, mushrooms and salt.

I did not know exactly what to expect ahead, but I’ve always believed that being truly alone in deep nature would alter my mind. Alter my very being.

I became a human animal out there. I entered into the flow and rhythm of this microcosm of Earth with the interconnected community of plants, animals, insects and elements.

With pencil on paper, I wrote:

On evening 5: “I hear the mosquitoes and bees buzzing, the fluttering of wings, trout splashing, a bird with an almost eerie shrill call and the great owl has started up again. A moment of interconnectedness with it all. Interbeing … a dissolution of the separateness. I am, in this moment, a part of it all.”

“It’s a bit unnerving being here in this altered state of mind. Dissolving self into this space, with nobody here but me. I see how an untrained mind could lose it out here. And how a trained mind could attain oneness with all life.”

In the pages ahead, I will intimately share my experience of solitude, all alone in the woods.

I journaled by day at the lake sight, and by evening in my tent. The words written here today are the refined and expanded journals, straight from my heart and my inner being.

Day 1
Relief entered into my heart and my mind on the banks of the lake. The lake was clear and as pristine as I could hope for. For being a mountain lake, I was surprised to discover the lake to be far warmer than I expected. Within minutes of walking the shoreline, my heart fluttered. There it was, what I had dreamed of, but did not want to put too much hope in: a brook trout cruising the shallows, prowling for insects to eat. A new anxiety coursed through me, a great urge to catch this trout, bringing the freshest and most nourishing food to my diet of dried goods.

As much as the trout was now on my mind, I had a much stronger desire — to circumnavigate the lake and decide upon the most ideal spot to set up camp. Being in a deep depression from the ridges, my location from one side to the next would mean I’d need to prioritize morning or evening sun upon my base. As I began my walk, I came across huckleberries and salmon berries. I knew they would be here, but was not sure in what quantity, as 1,000 feet of elevation can make a substantial difference. I visited many berry bushes, and my take was that the berries were relatively sparse, especially the salmon berries.

I wouldn’t be the only one eating these berries. On the east side of the lake, across from where I entered, I came across fresh bear tracks, likely from that same day. They were depressed deep into soft ground where the lake seeped right over into the vegetation. No doubt the bears were here to eat these berries as well. Their poop was scattered in numerous locations, right through the areas where I knew I’d be walking each day. I was excited to have company.

Day 2
Day 2 was a Saturday, not that it really mattered out here, but I held onto the days of the week, as a way of knowing when I’d be leaving.

I spent the day at camp, which I had set up the day prior, in almost the exact spot where I had first arrived at the lake. There was a large tree that had fallen, providing a bridge of sorts to sit out upon the water and to easily harvest my drinking water a distance from the shore where more sediment was in the water. It was the only tree of this sort, and the regions of flat land were very sparse. This space allowed me to be in the protection of the trees, but just steps from the lake. Plus the waters were deep right off shore and the trout seemed to be as abundant and accessible here as anywhere on the lake.

I arrived here with very minimal gear, and that meant no fishing pole, just a small amount of fishing line and a few hooks. I rigged this line up to my tent pole and with this setup was able to flick my line out as much as ten feet from shore. For bait, I caught damselflies, dragonflies and aquatic insects in their larval stage, all of which were in abundance. Within minutes of wetting the line, I caught my first fish. A brook trout that held such beauty and energy that I could cry just cradling it in my hands. The markings upon the approximately ten-inch fish’s skin have some resemblance to the cosmos, holding great beauty and wonder within the circles, squiggles and edges. The orange flesh was an equal experience of beauty for me, as I believe these trout to be some of the most nourishing foods on Earth for my body.

The biting flies had an opportunity to try out a new food of their own, my flesh. I was bitten my numerous flies, enough so that my feet were swollen by late in the day. But this did not take away my joy. As I settled into the space, I felt that a week here alone would be no issue. I was home.

Day 3
Numerous days of sunny skies had come to an end for now. I awoke to a blanket of clouds over the mountains. As I gazed across the lake, I saw a large animal … no, two large animals on the lake edge. Pigs? Coyotes? Bears? At first sight, the way they scrambled, I was not sure. They continued on the lake edge and within a short time, it was clear to be an adult mother bear with her cub. I snuck out onto my log, with a clear view to watch them across the lake. They were walking south, directly on the path where I had found their steps in the days prior. These were clearly the bears with which I was sharing the lake and the berries.

With gratitude, I watched as the bears crossed the entire far side of the lake, and then started to round the lake towards me. My food was in my tent and they were directly on track to walk through my site if they stayed on the lake. I snuck over to the tent and took my food out onto the log with me. The bears did not reappear. They decided to follow the creek bed that I had descended two days prior. They never gave pause to show a sign that they saw me. At some point they knew I was there, and I did not see them again.

I sat for what I guessed to be one hour after this intimate experience with these friends of the woods. Raindrops gently fell down on me. It was time to go out huckleberry picking and do another exploratory lap around the lake. The berry scene was not what it had been just 48 hours ago. Two days of warm weather and the advancement of summer had ripened the huckleberries to the point where I now had access to berry heaven. For what I would guess to be two hours, I walked from bush to bush to bush, eating handfuls of berries. I felt like a bear, gorging upon this medicine food of the Earth. Around any corner, I knew I could stumble across a bear friend, nourishing themselves just as I was. As I was in verbal silence, it would be quite possible that they would not notice me from afar, although I was often quite loud as I pushed myself through the thick bushes of huckleberries, many of which were over my head.

Along the lake I walked barefoot, matching many of my steps with the tracks that had been left by the bear. I envisioned my bare feet in contact with theirs, and I felt certain that I was taking in the essence of the bears from this morning.

In the berry patch, I met a new friend, a type of grouse that I had not even known existed, much larger than the grouse of my homeland. The female grouse had about five young with her and I spent much time observing them. Had I wanted to, I could have likely caught them with my hands or the right size hitting stick. Although it would have been quite nourishing, this was only a thought, and not an intention. I deeply enjoyed being in their presence, sharing the salmon berries from what I could observe of them.

The berry patch and the clouds provided an environment that allowed me to experience the landscape of my own mind in a new manner. At times — especially with no sun to use as a gauge — I felt almost no sense of time. There were moments of forgetting my sense of self. There were moments where I felt no separation from the land or the animals that I shared the space with. I was here, at home on the land and within myself. I was just here.

Yet, I also experienced very strong anxiety for much of the day. I was not sure why. Perhaps the uncertainty of fishing? Perhaps the concern of stumbling upon a bear? Perhaps the lack of knowing this environment, being in a place I was not used to? Perhaps not knowing the time, with a concern for being in the right place when the sun would set. Certainly some concern over whether I had enough food. There were many uncertainties for my mind to navigate. My anxiety has decreased quite substantially lately, so this came as somewhat of a surprise, even though my anxiety has been extreme on past solo endeavors like this one.

Rounding the corner to my camp, I came upon the first sign of human presence. A small fire pit, perhaps from this spring or a year or two prior. I had found not a single scrap of garbage and this sign of humans was just a mere five or six rocks configured into a small circle, with some burned sticks in the middle. I now knew that humans did come down here, at least on occasion. I wondered who? And what were they up to?

At every meal I had wild rice, dehydrated venison, maitake mushroom powder and salt. Each of these foods were hand harvested from the Earth and I felt a strong connection. I was elated to be eating this incredibly pure diet, a feast of sorts. The Olympic Peninsula has many unique plants and I met numerous tender greens that I guessed were edible, but I was not sure enough to more than curiously taste. With many of my meals, I mixed in a handful of fresh berries, which transform a meal of dehydrated simple ingredients, adding volume, texture and flavor.

In my two-quart pot, I cooked up about one pound of wild rice, which is five half-cup servings, and about 1,650 calories. On some days, I ate this entire amount and on others there was about one serving left. I found it harder than I expected to consume a pound of rice per day, even with so little other food to fill me. I had just one pound of dried venison and a limited supply of maitake and salt.

The leaf that I ate in some abundance were the leaves of salmon berry. These were relatively tender and in eating these, I took part in a new phenomenon. They were absolutely covered in sticky sugar. I don’t know which tree, but one or more of the trees were in a stage of producing copious quantities of sap that was being released into the air (through their leaves) and coating the understory. I was often sticky with sugar, so much so that my clothes needed extra cleaning. I enjoyed eating many of these leaves and I know the bears did, too. I inspected their poop and after some days, I understood why it had a unique fermented smell to it the way it did. Their poop was largely these sugary leaves and all this sugar was fermenting in their system as they digested the leaves. It was a fairly pleasant smell, for the poop of an omnivore.

The salmon berry leaves made a desirable tea, with no bitterness, unlike most of the bramble berries from which tea can be made. I had no relationship, except one of wonder, with this plant prior to my arrival in this region, so it was a deep joy to be deepening my relationship with this friend day by day. I also made cedar tea, from the fresh growth of the cedar that I camped under. I ate the tips of many pine, one species of which tasted very much like burnt marshmallows. I could only eat so much of that.

In the late afternoon to early evening I laid in the evening sun, a place of joy and rejuvenation for me. After three solid nights of rest, I was feeling very well rested.

Day 4
Not only was it cloudy, but the winds had taken away the warmth from the previous days, and I found myself cold much of the day. I sat by the lake all day (generally in my sleeping bag), patching and mending my clothes and making cloth bags. I took two naps, wrote in my notebook, fished for trout and had an evening berry eating session. There was no sunshine up until the last hour of the day.

I have had almost no thoughts of email or social media and have taken no notes on things to do when I’m out of here. Quite present in the moment. I am the most one with Earth I have ever felt. Not much sense of separation. My food is 100% foraged from the land. The natural fibers that fall from my clothes, and the scraps from my repairs are returning to Earth, just as the plants that grow here. I am flowing with nature here. Walking in my bare feet and my homemade wool and leather booties, I feel quite in harmony with the plants, even those I gently step upon.

My poop, food scraps, toothpaste, soap and coconut oil all can return to Earth, providing nourishment rather than destruction. I am putting nothing on my body or in my body which cannot be returned to Earth with harmony. This is all at the essence of why I feel so connected with the Earth here, and why the sense of separateness is dissolving. Because the essence of me is interconnected and in harmony with the essence of life here.

However, there are ways in which I’m interacting that are not in harmony.

When I saw that the coconut oil on my body was creating an oil slick upon the clean lake surface, I felt my presence was not in the full harmony of life.

I have had just a few pieces of plastic trash from my possessions, few of which are plastic at all. I dream of existing with only materials that can return to Earth, having no harm to the plants, animals and soil.

My movement and presence has resulted in some destruction of plants. I am out of my known ecosystem and don’t know with certainty which plants may be in abundance and which may be scarce or may even be out of harmony with the land. I damaged some delicate flowers, spring ephemeral of sorts, to set up my sleeping area, which has been a point of uncertainty and discomfort.

Today, I felt for the first time that a week out here is quite long. I had some questioning of spending three more days here. Originally I thought that I could do a month. Today I’m questioning how challenging that would be. I’ve reached a new milestone for complete solitude, without seeing or hearing another human. My previous milestone was three days in the Boundary Waters, (which would have been five, but for a quick passing of a few canoes on night three.)

I have not been lonely for a second. I have not been bored for a moment. I have spent hours just observing, watching and listening with curiosity and wonder. I have spent hours just figuring out what exactly it is that I’m seeing. I have spent much time observing the plants and animals — newts in community, a solitary water bird, dragonflies zipping through the sky, damselflies mating, trout cruising the shoreline and exploding upon the insects that have fallen upon the surface of the water, wood frogs on the cool shoreline, an absolutely fatty toad, a grouse with her four chicks and a mother bear and cub, providing me with one of my longest bear encounters. There have been so many moments where I have had interactions with these animal and insect relatives. I have been a part of their life and they have been a part of mine. I am not alone here. I have watched dragonflies emerge from their aquatic larval stage, shedding their tough exoskeleton, leaving them in their most tender moment, wings touching air for the first time. I have plucked them from their place at this vulnerable moment, put them onto my fishing hook, to put a trout — absolutely vibrant with life — directly into my pot, nourishing my body in a most connected and interconnected manner.

I have been listening to many different birds in the forest, with the deep hoot of an owl, perhaps the great horned owl, being a part of every evening. I have found and dissected the poop of an animal with large bone chunks in it. Who left this poop there, I do not know. I have come across insects I’ve never laid eyes upon before, and I found them in the belly of the trout, as well as out and about in the forest.

In the red alder by my campsite, I found clear signs of previous water rodents, perhaps muskrats, who had chewed the alders down. Yet I found no other recent signs of them. Were they here, or had they left for a new body of water? In these same red alder I found a paper wasp nest, which I observed at just the right distance to satisfy my sometimes conflicting desires of comfort and curiosity.

This is one of the most pristine ecosystems in which I have been. No plant seems out of balance. No animal seems out of place. There are virtually no signs of humans. The only signs are some quiet planes in the distance, but I cannot see them.

The massive cedar and Douglas fir are hundreds of years old, and even upon dying they exist for many decades, providing huge logs to walk on, some of which are hundreds of feet long, resting on the ground or a story above the soil.

The forest is so alive. With so much activity from the animals, there has not been a moment of pure silence during the day. But when I go to sleep, so do they and at night I have experienced pure silence. In fact, after years of wearing earplugs and becoming fully dependent upon them, I took the risk of bringing no earplugs with me. I have liberated myself of these plastic pieces that disconnect me from Earth, at least for now.

With light, no headlamp, I am going to bed with the dark and waking to the light. This may be my first time immersing myself in the natural world with no light. The long days from 5:30 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. make this largely effortless and flowing. I have been getting some of the most restful sleep of my adult life. I put down my reading (Peace Pilgrim and a foraging book) or my writing as the sun falls below the western mountains). At night, I have intentionally not looked into the sky, so that I could experience only natural light and darkness as it has existed for millions of years, prior to satellites and airplanes.

Yet, it is a lot of work to exist here, purifying water, cooking over fire, walking without trails (the bear trails help a lot), maintaining warmth, fishing, berry harvesting, protecting myself from insects, protecting myself from Sun, having a comfortable place to sit, stretching my body from painful sitting. It’s not a vacation out here. It is not easy to simply relax. This could be part of the anxiety I am experiencing out here.

Today all day I had thoughts of “The Office” (the TV show). I also found myself quoting movies from my past. Why? I had many thoughts of childhood. Many thoughts of sex, specifically early sexual experiences. Some of these thoughts were incessant, instead of productive ponderings. Perhaps these are traumas of some sort that my mind is still processing?

Out here I am doing what I did as a child, simply being with nature and being in love with it.

I’m starting to believe that living and embodying a deep love for Earth and sharing that love is enough. That could be what I do with my life. I’m contemplating going back to my roots of connecting to the natural world — being part of it. Being in love with it and sharing that. Perhaps, that is enough, I don’t need to understand every social issue. I have educated myself deeply. I have dissolved much of the separation with my fellow humanity and the racial biases within me. I have come to understand my privilege and my place in society. Yes, I have much more to learn and will continue to, but I cannot neglect my relationship with Earth and with myself. My greatest gift may be to explore my inner self deeply in relationship to Earth and share this experience I’m having.

I spent much time solidifying my vision for life: what I want, how I want to be of service. I made a five-year plan, a two-year plan and a one-year plan. I have the space out here to bring focus and clarity to my life and spend time thinking over the big picture. I know that my priorities in the years ahead include much effort in mental liberation, healing and deepening my role as a servant.

Some may be wondering, why would I spend all this time writing about the experience, rather than simply living it, given my objective to be in the present moment with Nature. Writing helps me to process life, to solidify it, to create patterns and habits. I feel deeply drawn to writing. I often can’t resist (but I often do).
I write for me, but I also write for you. I want to take you along in this deep connection to Earth, and to introduce you to my life here with Earth. With only a pencil and paper here with me on the lake — no camera or phone — writing is the way I can share what is alive in me with you.

Day 5
“Chilly night, sunny morning, cold, did early walk around the lake and ate lots of berries, warmed in the sun, made breakfast, worked on clothes and finished most of my projects. The trout were very active. I caught one brook trout. The sun doesn’t arrive until late in the day on my side of the lake. Noon? Sat by the lake almost the entire day. In the late afternoon, I rubbed my body down with coconut oil and laid in the sun, making sure every part of me came in direct contact with the sun.”

As the sun set, I started to sing inside, “I am grateful. I am grateful. I am grateful, grateful, grateful.” A sense of inner peace filled me up and washed away the anxiety. In this state, I realized if I hadn’t been keeping track of the days, I would not know how long I’ve been here. I’m experiencing a sense of timelessness. It’s hard to put exact words to, but it’s a sensation that time does not exist.
I got in bed after a few evening chores, the sun now behind the mountain, with some light still in the sky.

As I walked to my tent, this sense of non-existence (hard to explain) arose in me.
Lying in bed the questions arose, “Where am I?” A few seconds passed and the thought came … “Washington.” “Washington, what am I doing here? How did I get here? Oh yes, Port Townsend…” Port Townsend, seems like the distant past.

I am content. I am happy. There is a warmth in my chest. Fullness? Wholeness? Somewhere is the exact word, but I don’t know it. I am absolutely high on life.
My eyes focus in on the cracks on my hand. They seem more pronounced than ever. I imagine I am an old man. Again time is bending. “What’s my age?”

I hear mosquitoes, bees buzzing, fluttering of wings, trout splashing, a bird with an almost eerie shrill call and the owl has started up. A moment of interconnectedness with it all. Interbeing. A dissolving of the separateness. I am in this moment a part of it all.

Where do I end and everything else begin? I am the lake that I drink, the trout, the berries and leaves I eat. I am the silt on my skin. This land and water is coursing through my veins and nourishing my cells. It’s not subjective. Five days in this microcosm of life and the microcosm has penetrated every cell of my being.
I am….

And what was once me now is this land. My blood is in the bodies of the biting flies and mosquitoes. I have become the young they will produce. My urine has been drunk in by the plants. My poop has already created new life — bacteria that exists in relationship with this space now.

Where does the life outside of me end and I begin? Where do I end and the life outside of me begin? Has the species of bacteria I brought in from elsewhere — my unique microbiome — been friendly to the microbiome here? Have they battled? Has my microbiome changed?

Surely I will leave here with some of this microscopic life having colonized my body inside and out. Will my unique microbiome live on here at all? Perhaps on the paws of the bear who I have shared footsteps with? Perhaps in the insects who have eaten my poop? Perhaps in the soil that has absorbed my skin cells and bodily fluids.

It’s a bit unnerving here in this altered state of mind. Dissolving self into the space, with nobody here but me. I could see how an untrained mind could lose it out here and how a trained mind could attain oneness with all life.

No psychedelics. Not even breathing techniques. Just being with life — intertwined with thousands of beings — all of us doing our own things together and our own things intersecting in countless ways. I have entered the flow of this life.

This is new for me. Five full days alone. In one of the most pristine and thriving ecosystems I have ever encountered. Almost no signs or sounds of humanity …
I didn’t expect exactly this. But I’ve always believed that being truly alone in deep nature would alter the mind. Alter the being.

I am comfortable here — and stretched beyond my comfort at the same time. I am at home. I could be simply experiencing it, but I am writing it as I experience it. Why? To make sense of it. To process it. To document it. To share it. I am fascinated by and in love with the healing powers of a deep connection with Earth and the plants and animals we share this home with. I want society to know what we still have and to fall back in love with our home, like I know humanity once was in love. It’s all here. This is available to us all. Mother Earth is calling us home. Each of us. Are you listening?

Day 6
No bloating or stomach pain. Very little gas at all. The sunny morning was quickly covered by clouds coming from the west, including a mist that shrouded the mountains.
There was barely any sun all day and I was quite chilled. I never grasped what time it was and the daylight ended before I knew. Yet now in bed, I realized that this morning feels like the distant past. It is very quiet here. Just as I am less mobile without the warmth of the sun, the same goes for most of the creatures. So much less life was in the air today.

I had a connective morning exploration around the lake, gorging on berries. This scene here has changed dramatically since my arrival from scant berries to now loaded shrubs around every bend. I have spent many hours hand to mouth feasting on berries and have eaten thousands. It is apparent there is more than I or the bears and birds here will ever eat. Many will certainly fall to the ground and nourish the Earth.
I sewed new soles onto the booties for the walk out and it took me much longer than hoped. I have some finishing touches and breakfast to cook in the morning and will aim to leave early for the journey back. I estimate it will take three hours back to the trail without distractions, minimal breaks and a relatively smooth interaction with the land and trees. I am quite anxious for the steep slopes whether barefoot or in my natural shoes. With industrial gear that I have little care for and a disposable mindset, the thought of the journey back would be less worrisome. However, my homemade, natural fiber clothing that I’m wearing was never meant for this level of scramble through rough terrain.

All in all, I am celebrating a milestone. A week alone in the remote wilderness. This is a goal that has been on my mind for at least two decades and a prominent aspiration for at least fourteen years. I am surprised it took me until almost my fourth decade to accomplish this, but not disappointed or ashamed in any way. This Is no easy task and I have met few humans who have done this.

I’ve had many moments of mental insecurity out here and without my many intentional practices that have molded my mind, it is quite unlikely I could have accomplished this.

Even though the week passed with relative ease, I can see clearly that this is not a matter to take lightly. Theory in the mind, and the physical experience with the thousands of interconnected possibilities, are two different versions of reality.
I feel very strongly that someone could lose themselves out here with two very different results. One could mentally crack — damaged and long-term traumatized by the experience. Or one could leave behind the parts of their mind that no longer serve them, with a newly found freedom and liberation of the mind. A step towards insanity or a step towards enlightenment.

I felt there were moments of shaky ground for me, which I never expected. Seven days was the right amount of time for now. I pushed myself to a new limit, but did not push too far. How much more would be too far? I don’t know and I don’t need to know right now.

I walk out of here changed at the very core of my being. Monumentally? No. Substantially? Quite possibly. I will observe my mind in the weeks and months ahead. I can say in this moment that, if I had to analyze my current being and guess whether I had a psychedelic experience out here, I would lean towards yes. I would lean towards the concept that neural pathways in my brain were physically rewired. I would say that I did lose my mind out here, a part of it, that is. That part being whatever has allowed the concept of separateness to exist so concretely in my mind. Part of that wall has crumbled out here.

And as the wall crumbles, the natural state of existence is putting down roots from my mind to my feet. From the invisible thought patterns within me, to my tangible, physical connection and being. This can be called interconnectedness. Or inter-being. That’s how I’ve heard it explained by Thich Nhat Hanh and how I’ve come to understand what for so long I could only fathom conceptually, but not know through experience.
The work is paying off. I am becoming a part of it all. I am returning to Earth.

Some reading this will be doubtful of what I’ve shared. Understandably so. I likely would have been dismissive as my past self. On the other hand, I’m sure others can relate and possibly be grateful for my ability to articulate what they have experienced. Either is fine for me. Your experience reading this is your own and I leave that with you. In truth, I wrote this for myself first, but I’m happy to share it with others on this path or those simply curious of this path.

As the light fades beyond visible writing conditions, I put down my pencil. I rest for the night.

Day 7
For the first section of the ascent, while the ground was flat, I wore my newly soled wool booties. In part, not because I wanted to have my feet covered, but to test out my handiwork. After the slope steepened, I removed my foot coverings to try my bare feet out for the climb. After all, the only reason I was coddling my feet was that I had entered the woods weaning my foot off an injury. With my 1,600 mile walk ahead the health of my feet is of the utmost importance.

Side note: The walk in turned out to be a potential disaster for this injury, as it was my most strenuous act in multiple years. The first night at the lake I remember waking with substantial pain in the same injured foot. But upon awakening there was no pain and there hasn’t been any pain since. Perhaps the natural movement and connection with Earth somehow nourished the injury.

Back to the present moment. Within moments with my bare feet, I saw how every step could so easily be placed for a maximal grip and leverage. It was smooth moving to the mountaintop from there.

Nearly at the top, I reflected that it had been a week since I had touched or seen any electronic device or any light that was not emitted by the sun. Not even a plane and or satellite. This is likely the only time that I have experienced this. Will it be years until I experience this again?

Licking, sniffing, tasting, touching … out here, I was a human animal interacting with my environment unlike any you will ever find in society, or even most that you will come across in the woods. Licking, sniffing, tasting, touching … I tapped into the natural human state through using my senses in a manner that most of society would scoff at. An animal. A human animal. That I am returning to.

“Happiness Is Here and Now.” At the peak of the mountain, I sang these words out upon the land. These are the words I have broken all of my silences with in the past two years. As I sing, my ears tuned to the vibrations within me and the vibrations outside of me. The birds have their own song and I am singing with them. Not separate from: we are here together in existence. I — the human animal, them — the bird animals. I know that my song is not that of an outsider, but that of a fellow creature among them.

I have nothing left to prove, only a life on Earth to explore. I am done with the game of right and wrong. I have become an observer. From here on, I intend to only share my experience with those who care to listen. No judgments. No comparisons.
Simply existence, shared with utter transparency and authenticity.

I came out with a half pound of wild rice left, no worse off in any way, enriched in every way I had hoped.