All “Alone” Yet Never More Alive
All “Alone” Yet Never More Alive
Five days without seeing another human and no means to contact the outside world ….
A few hours walking upstream from this bridge on the shores of a mountain lake, I made my home, alone, yet never more ALIVE.
I camped on a small sliver of land — buzzing and teeming with life — where the river flowed into the lake.
For six nights and five of the longest days of my life, I communed with the plants and animals. Moose, deer, beaver, loons, eagles, osprey, hummingbird moths, bees, beetles, trout, mosquitoes and countless other relatives kept me company daily.
Slowly parts of the “civilized” self melted away as I drank exclusively of the wild mountain water, nourished myself on fish and ate the spring growth of onions, dandelions and other greens and flowers.
In full silence, with no mirror or camera, it was easy to forget much of myself, dissolving into the everything.
I left the books behind, so I’d have only one story to immerse in, the story of life around me.
These deep immersions into nature are not easy. It takes serious work to go to places where no other human will find me. It’s taken me over two decades of close connection to the land to feel safe and comfortable being so alone, without an ounce of loneliness.
But the reward is well worth it. In a world dominated by technology and social media, relatively few have the skills for this level of self-connection, of interconnection and of trust that Nature has their back. At the core of my being is the desire to be a human of this Earth and being alone and one with it all is at the essence of this possibility.
I entered with four pounds of rice as my only sustenance, of which I returned with two-and-a-half. The land nourished me beyond my hopes or expectations.
I emerge healed at a cellular and spiritual level, through the basic healing power of Nature.
I am absolutely in love with Earth.
I spent numerous hours writing of this love and will share the writing in the days and weeks ahead. I hope my love shines through with such a gleam that this love for Nature enters your heart. That this light kindles the desires to be a human OF this Earth, a lover of this Earth, a steward of this Earth and a protector of this Earth, through your daily being.
Love,
Robin
Photo taken May 25th, 2025 when dropped off at the trail by Dear Friends Rob and Riana Herring in Glacier National Park. Returned May 31st, 2025.
70 hours in — Day Four
It is noon on this fourth day of my escape from society to one of the greatest wildernesses I know. Only now do I pick up my pencil to write on this paper.
I lie on a sliver of land where a snowmelt-fed river empties into this mountain lake. The river (or is it a stream?) babbles on three sides of me in a harmonious range of water interacting with stones and downed trees. In front of me, I look out upon calm water and a shoreline of alder where a moose and a couple deer were grazing moments ago. To the south, I see the glassy calm lake expanding perhaps a half mile. Two ducks fly over, accentuating the snow-capped mountain ridge that stands a half-dozen miles behind the lake. To my west is a coniferous forest no longer in its glory days, having succumbed to the bark beetles, budworms and recent forest fires. To my north flows the river, which I had originally intended to follow a dozen miles more — in part on trail, and in part bushwhacking — past three more mountain lakes to the source at 6,000 feet. Here I would find myself under a 9,000 foot peak, glaciers in sight, and surely much colder as Spring would be a couple weeks lagging there.
Shall I go on? I think not, for there would be certain risks. There are, of course, the grizzly bears (which I would love to share close encounters with), but as I am practicing pure silence here in the expanse of woods, I’d have to choose my silence or the high risk of startling a grizzly. I also fear my few items of clothing would be too scant for the freezing nights. But neither of these anxieties are really what is stopping me from going further. Rather, it is my reluctance to seeing another human.
The lake where I am camped now has no path leading in, no path leading out. It was a difficult hour-long, bushwhack in. No official campsites have been placed on this lake, which means no camping is allowed here at all. All this to say that, although deeper wilderness lay beyond me, this lake, this location where I sit now is my haven from humanity.
I expect I will stay here for the next three nights. Worry free? If only so. On these warm, late May days, the snow is melting with some rapidity. Each day I have watched the water rising. The rock bar, a stone’s throw away from the river mouth where I stood dry and caught my first trout, is now two inches under water. The shore of land my tent sits on has shrunk by perhaps a quarter. I sit a mere few inches above the rising water. Should a thunderstorm unleash upriver (of which none are forecasted) I would wisely find higher ground. But in my exploration of the shores, as of yet, I have found no flat ground. Deeper in the forest, I would be plagued by mosquitoes at an unbeatable level. The breeze and sun on this island keep the mosquitoes at bay. The hundred or so bites I have received so far are tolerable to me. In fact, I appreciate the bites, for they are a part of the abundance of insect, animal and plant life I am here to commune with — and they keep most humans out.
Alas, why do I lie here with pencil in hand when I could be exploring the shores and seeing what I may find? First, my vantage from here is hard to outdo. A pair of loons fish in eyesight. Moose and deer wait on the shoreline. A wide range of flying insects — some of which I have never seen before — keep me company. Trees unfurl their leaves, flowers shine like beacons in the sky. And oh, the sky — the radiant blue penetrates my soul. I can feel the gently stunning white clouds in my heart. The river babbles on and on, and at some rare moments, I feel as if I am the water that babbles. Where the flow meets the calm water, the trout are actively feeding on insects. The warm sun greets my shoulders and the scent of spring onions is wafting in. All of this to be seen, felt and known each time I pause my pen and lift my eyes from writing.
Perhaps I digress. The question was, “Why do I write?” For this, there are three reasons.
It is my burning desire to become a human of Earth with a connection so strong as to not feel separate or scared, but rather, interconnected with it all. Writing is a tool I use to deepen my love, for writing is my art form, my internalized expression of what is external to me, melting away the barrier between the two. Writing brings my love to life, and love is my gateway to becoming one with this place and with all the plants and animals I call my relatives.
Writing on my experience also serves to document the growth of my relationship with Earth. As the solo immersions add up and the years go by, I can refer to these writings to see the progress I have made and where I have shortcomings. Am I more comfortable? Do I have less anxiety? Do I feel less separate? Am I more interconnected? What patterns do I find and with this knowledge, have the basis to overcome? Where can I celebrate my development and have reason to keep my head high?
Lastly, I write for you, just as much as I do for me. I hope my love shines through with such a gleam that this light for nature enters your heart. That this light kindles the desires to be a human OF this Earth, a lover of this Earth, a steward of this Earth, a protector of this Earth, through your daily being. I hope — dare I say know — that some of you will feel this light so strongly that you can no longer go on, no longer box yourself into the status quo and the societal norms that are destroying what we love: no longer exist in a state of separation from the life we share this home with, from the hover flies to the butterflies, the shrews to the snowy white owls, the rainbow trout to the bluest of the whales, all the green things growing, and even what we’ve been taught to hate — the mosquitoes and spiders, the cockroaches and pigeons and, yes, even the bacteria on our bodies and the mold in our cupboards.
And one last bit: might I even hope to glean wisdom of the golden nugget caliber from my experience alone with it all and refine it into words so true and pure as to contribute something meaningful to humanity.
As these last sentences formed from mind thoughts to graphite inscribed onto paper, my eyes welled with tears. Tears that surely consist of the cold mountainous water of this lake. Perhaps this is what becomes of me — my mind, body and spirit — alone in the woods, yet not alone at all. Perhaps this above all is why I come here.
There is much more to write, but this notebook can hold me no more. The sun is near mid sky, the loons call, the trout tantalize me, and it’s time to leave my own barefoot tracks where the moose have led me with theirs.
There’s something happening. Can my vocabulary describe? I believe it may be the result of the flow of life around me in contrast to the dead societal ecosystem from which I have emerged — better said, escaped. Most are unlikely to understand my choice of the word ‘escaped,’ for they likely have never known what lies beyond the comforts of their city and their home. I, in my late thirties, am only now discovering this for myself. In the best chance of your understanding what I feel, first I’ll tell you what I see.
There are five curious bees — a small native bee of sorts — harvesting resources from the skin of my big toe. Many more are hovering. Hundreds of honeybees and these iridescent green bees swarm where I have peed, licking up the salt from my urine — a precious resource I’ve introduced from a world unknown to them. On and in my tent are flying and crawling insects of great variety and expanding out across this land, insects are active everywhere I see. Butterflies with beauty outmatched by none float gently among the plants. The occasional fast-as-can-be insect (fly, wasp, what are they?) zooms through my frame of reference. Green of many hues springs skyward from the ground or crawls horizontally as the creeping ones do. Radiant yellow dandelions bring life to the sun above, those that I have not already eaten that is. The spring onions waft their scent this way and that. Saskatoon shrubs show off their white blossoms, telling the story of the berries yet to come. To my left, some young pines just a few years old. Towering above is the pine that has passed the test of time on this ever changing land. I know this land to be changing because I watch the waters rise, the green grass on dry ground yesterday now covered in the water. Although it is without question the melting of the snow from the white-capped mountains to the north, I can’t see this with the momentary eye. The rocks strewn all about, not moving in the moment, but it takes only the subtlest of imaginations to know they lie there from events of roaring waters past.
And, oh, the water. I see the cold snow melt pour out the mouth of the river thirty feet ahead. It pours so strong that the river water sits above the lake before becoming one. Here where the river meets the lake it is alive and flourishing. Trout rise to the surface eating the insects that have fallen from above and been delivered downstream. The babble is music to my ears, bringing joy so strong it’s almost heavy. Just out beyond the moving water, two loons catch their midday nourishment of fish. They call to … to what do they call? But I can pretend they call to me. A group of small wading birds sing and sing and sing; a celebration of Spring perhaps. The moose, the deer, and the grizzly tracks, too, cover the animal path around the lake, of which I’ve wandered. The sky above — piercingly blue — accentuated by the ever-so-slowly moving clouds. And, of course, the whitish-blue glorious sun above.
As far as I can see in every direction, near and far, there is life alive around me. There is no ‘yes.’ There is no ‘no.’ Not even a ‘maybe.’ It all exists interconnected as it can be. It buzzes, it flows, it shines, it glows. They’ve been here together for thousands of years, ever-changing, ever-being and non-being all at once. And here I am, mixed all up in it. Not a sight or sound of human being. Not even a smell — three days since I left it all. Here I am, all alone, yet never more part of something.
When I say ‘part,’ I don’t only mean in thought. I drink this wild water and it courses through my veins. When I urinate it out, I have completed a cycle of life, the nutrients returning in myriad ways. The trout from the waters are nearly all I’ve eaten for the last two days, along with nettle, dandelion, pine and onions from the land. All around are poops of sorts — bear, moose and bird.
My poop is buried in the soil, being eaten and integrated as I write, spare one poop on a rock, my own from this morning. I’m watching it to see it change. What will come of me day by day with the activity of sun, air, insects and bacteria? But wait, is it me on that rock or trout and onion transformed into an altar matter?
Here I sit, life all around. I look out, ducks fly by, termites greet me at my door and I wonder, do they see me as separate? As far as I can tell, I am one, dissolving into the many.
This is what I see, in words on paper, to the best of my ability.
Can you feel this flow?
Can you hear this buzz?
Can you smell the breeze off the pine?
If you can, perhaps you know, at least a bit, what I’m feeling.
So when I looked and saw it all waving, begging me to say, “There’s something happening,” I set out to narrate it to you.
All to say the separateness is fading and the boundary is wavering.
Summer Twilight
Trout slurp
Bats swoop
Loons call
Oh, they call!
Frogs chirp
Moths flutter
Moon gleams
Oh, it gleams!
Creek babbles
Songbirds sing
Creatures stir
Joy to life!
It’s all alive!
Here I lie
Last light fading
Heart a thumping
Joy to life!
I’m alive!
I speak of them
I speak of me
But the walls are falling
I feel their being
Deep within me
Joy to life!
We’re alive!
“Nature”
Nature is a word I love;
but a word it is untrue.
For I am nature,
and even so are you.
We speak of nature as another,
but in truth she is our mother.
She gave us birth,
we are of the Earth.
For some this thought makes us blue
but fret not my friend, it is true.
From nature we came,
yet we try to tame
but in doing so we maim
our brothers and our sisters.
We now see
as clear as can be,
what we do to Earth
we do to us
for better
or for worse.
For I am nature,
and even so are you.
Fresh Trout
It’s 5:15 and I’m hungry.
Time to catch a trout.
My rice pot’s empty
and foraged flowers and greens will not do.
I wade out into the stream, fishing pole with spinner in hand.
One cast, two, then some more.
Dinner is in doubt … the time is running out
to eat by six on my daily schedule.
Then WHAM there’s the hit
and the hook is set.
One crank, two, then some more
and the trout is at my feet.
In my hands, what do I do?
For now it’s nearly six.
To build a fire and cook the fish
isn’t in my wish.
The wind is roaring and I’m tired.
Do I let him go?
I kill him quickly, snapping at the neck.
I pull his innards out.
The heart, liver, spleen and semen directly to my mouth.
This isn’t new, but what I’m about to do sure is.
I take a bite from the belly,
flesh and bones in my mouth.
To my delight, this meat is just right.
One bite, two, then some more.
What’s left is skin and bones.
Eyes and brains in my belly, too.
While this might sound strange,
you must remember sushi exists, too.
Fifteen minutes in the river,
chomping like a bear,
I taste salmon sushi in one bite
and lox in another.
I won’t be discreet,
this trout was a treat
and now it’s just past six.
Satiated from the trout, I continued fishing. The 13-inch fish was fulfilling, but I yearned for more. To catch and release, not to eat, was what I had in mind. One cast, two, then some more and WHAM, another on my line. Moments later the beauty is in my hands. It wasn’t planned, but next I knew, I’m biting at its back. The fish is alive and so am I. I check the stream for grizzlies. None in sight, only me with life in my hands. The skin too tough in the back, I start from another track. Tail first and up the body without a tool in hand. If there ever was a time for this trial, surely it was now. Here alone on this mountain lake, perhaps there is no purer trout to be found.
One trout, two, then no more; it’s time to rest in bed. It could be said, “He’s a mad man,” of which I would accept. Mad with knowledge of my knowing that I am of this Earth. The trout, the bear, and the human together as equals. I’m no better and no worse; in fact, I question the separation at all. For what are we, I do not know, but one thing is sure: I am the trout and the trout is me. At least that’s the dream I’ll live.
Day Five
It’s Day Five, although I would struggle to know this but for my daily checklist. It’s now been 100 hours since I’ve seen another human. To my delight, there’s nothing that I miss. Barely a thought of the outside world comes to mind each hour. The thoughts that arise are passing and of little importance at all. Mostly songs from my younger years and quotes from TV shows. They bubble up from deep within, sometimes on repeat. On this lake, there’s not even a sign of human life. Not a scrap of trash, not a fire pit, not a sawed off branch, not a human foot path. No doubt people have been here, but I’ve found no signs. Thus, I am alone.
I’ve brought with me very little to distract me. I ditched the books at the trail head. No phone, no computer, no GPS or radio, no camera, not a single screen. With nights only seven hours long, I brought no light at all. The only gadget that I have is an old clock. In the past, I’ve left it at home, with the quest to become timeless, but I have found much anxiety being in that dark. There have been a handful of moments I’ve heard the clock tick. I’ve witnessed my brain register the sound of man, the only one here but a few planes. Eight geese float by me as I look across the lake. Beyond the lake, a wild valley with mountains afar. Blue skies gleam and clouds move like the geese.
The clock says 8:56, but what I feel is timeless. Just 100 hours all alone and … and … and … words cannot explain. Nature does its thing. My brain rewires and part of me is gone, and another part is found. I’m amazed at what these excursions do for me. I imagine others feel similar when they find “god” or commune with psychedelics. That’s the closest I can compare. But on that, I go no further for tonight. I wish to write on more practical terms.
I entered here with four pounds of rice, eight teaspoons of salt and some medicinal mushroom tea (chaga, turkey tail, lion’s mane and maitake). For five full days and six nights, that’s about 1,300 calories per day. At the end of night five, I have eaten just one pound of the rice and will leave here with ten of the 18 servings. Fish has made the majority of my sustenance. On day one, I walked in with a chubby belly, the product of my lack of control and surely some laziness. I had stuffed myself a bit too much that morning and days prior as well. On day two, I ate two servings of rice and a 16” fish. On day three, an 18” and 14” fish. On day four, a 17” and 14” fish. Today, a 12” and two 13” fish and three servings of rice. Each day I have also eaten many dandelions. On day three, I discovered onion after it wafted into my nose and have eaten this daily. Stinging nettle has nourished me on a couple of days. There’s also young, tender pine needles and some plantago and violet, too. It’s too early for any berries, but I’m sure there’s edible greens at my fingertips unknown to me in this unique region of which I’m unfamiliar. I came across some hefty morels, but alas they were too old. I’ve just reached from my tent for a strawberry flower. Delicious! I think I’ll have another.
Has this all been enough? Yes, but because a deficit of calories was the plan. As I write, I squeeze my belly and it surely has shrunk. This is a nature cleanse. In the city, I too often can’t resist the treats, the snacks and the extra portions. I came here to reset and regain my self-control and determination to shed the fat that is a product of an imbalanced yearning, residing in a society that is never satiated.
The moose has returned! She’s been on these shores daily. Glory to the moose!
Now I write of my gear. What do I have?
For sleeping and residing: tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mat and sheet
For cooking and eating: a small wood stove, pot, bowl, plate, spoon, fork, steel wool, lighter
For water: a filter and quart jar
For useful tools: multi-tool, trowel, scissors, paracord, safety pins, sewing kit, spare cloth, cloth bags and clock
For fishing: a pole with line, four spinners, some sinkers, hooks and swivels
For clothes: pants, shorts, t-shirt, long underwear top and bottom, wool hat, sun hat, socks (two pairs), moccasins for shoes, a rain poncho
For hygiene: a twig as a toothbrush, a fish bone as a toothpick, a bit of sunscreen for my nose and coconut oil
I, of course, have a backpack to carry all of this, plus my notebook and a pencil and a few unneeded items which I carried in because I have no home to stash them.
I have limited stimulation of all five senses from the outer world — smell, taste, sound and even touch and sight, too. Meticulous with my selection of items in their material, their color and their ability to create, or not create noise.
This list is approximately sixty items, and what do you notice as the theme? Every item has a function in my day to day. I bring only the essentials, leaving behind all that would distract me.
Distract me from my love of Mother Earth. Distract me from what I yearn for — a knowing so much deeper. What does it feel like to be at one, to see nothing as an other? With TV screens and cell phone beams, this is impossible to discover. For what I crave, there is no comfort or convenience to be bought. I am certain it can be found only by stripping to the basics. The basics of modern life, that is, seeking the rest in my Brothers and Sisters of the Earth. The trout I catch, I inspect their stomachs with fascination to know what they are eating. All the poop — the grizzly bears, the moose and coyotes — I pick it up to get intimate with their being. I eat the greens and the flowers and drink the wild water. I hug the trees and listen to the birds sing. My eyes have feasted on the loons, the moose, bald eagle and beetles, too.
And as I sat upon the beaver hut, my dreams laid out before me, fish in hand, the beaver propelled from under. He returned, and as he did, the sun shone just right. His eyes gleamed bright, his jaw bone sleek and something in the facial features — his wisdom penetrated me.
Somehow in all the beavers, I’d never seen this before. But wait. There’s more! As he’s swimming, I caught something in his face. Wait, it’s me. I see right there in his face. It’s me swimming — for a moment, we are one. This is what I’m seeking! Of this I’m certain — no matter the spectacle that is TV, it cannot instill this mixing. For even the most fantastic of nature shows, narrated even by granddaddy David Attenborough, there is still a world of separation.
It’s 10:00 now, and twilight is fading. With no light, it’s time to close this book. In just seven hours, the sun will return with boundless opportunities for connection with life.
Hooray, I’m alive!
For now, I’ll lie, soaking up the fading sights. While some are bedding down, others are rising, putting me to the test. Can I close these eyes, which are eager for the rest?
Day Six
Yesterday I circumnavigated the lake and today I hiked up the highest ridge, contemplating the mountain. I would say these adventures brought me joy, but that’s not the first feeling that comes to mind as they were both quite enduring. This forest is so substantially damaged by fire and by spruce budworm and bark beetles that, in most places, just walking is a challenge. On top of that, the shoreline is flooded (7” higher than on my arrival) and there is much steep slope to navigate. I would estimate that nine out of ten people would not, and would say they could not, do these basic hikes. Neither were far, but the challenges were many. From both trips, I returned quite scratched up and bitten by dozens more mosquitoes and gnats. On the lake walk, I stumbled upon the bones of a moose — massive leg bones, vertebrae and the skull. I planned to return to look for more, but never made it back to that side of the lake. At the south side, the river outlet was much wider and swimming was the only means to cross. I’ve spent hours standing, wading, walking, bathing and soaking in these waters, plus short swims on occasions when it saves my time in travel.
On the return side, I spent time again on the beaver hut catching fish. From this perch, it was absolutely clear that there was no need to visit the other lakes. For me, this lake is heaven on Earth, a paradise. There are few, if any, places I have ever been so surrounded by life. Each day I am greeted by new animals that had not made their presence known to me prior. A bald eagle soaring by, a pair of ospreys in the sky, white-tailed ptarmigan roosting in the woods, a pair of geese with three young ones, a species of hummingbird moth I had never seen before, a school of black striped suckers swimming up the river, stone fly and dragonfly nymphs hiding under rocks, reishi mushrooms and other species growing on the burned logs and moist moss, and on I could go. This is a special place at any time, but perhaps I have visited at the most vibrant time of year and even chosen a sliver of land more biodiverse and bountiful than much of the rest. Multiple environments collide here where the river meets the lake and it is a great meeting ground for many –- I the only human.
As I left my tent today headed for the ridge, I questioned, “Do I really want to leave the lake on my last day here even if only for a few hours?” I hesitated but was drawn with the possibility of reaching the snow, which before too long would, perhaps, become the lake.
I left after lunch — filled on my morning catch. My pockets were empty and on my body were my linen shorts, cotton shirt, wool hat and socks and leather moccasins. Everything on me of the Earth. On the ascent, I found a flow of snow melt water. With hands and knees on Earth, I put my lips to water. I drank and drank and then some more. And again, further up the ridge, I reflected on the fact that never have I drunk more unfiltered wild water than I have in these days. I have drunk from a dozen flows and tiny streams, the river and the lake. Most of my drinking water at my campsite I have filtered. Now having drunk at least three gallons of water from this place — that’s 1/6 of my body weight — I wonder what percentage of my blood is this snow melt lake manifest in form? And with the trout, greens, herbs and flowers, I wonder how much of my body is of this body of land and water. I do believe it to be real that when we eat, drink and meet all of our needs from a land, we can become one with a place in body, mind and spirit.
I’m only at the beginning of this journey, and I’m eager to see what not five days or a week will do, but a month, a season, or a year. Robin Wall Kimmerer says, we can all become Indigenous to a land, and I would like to put her belief, her invitation, to the test. But, for me, that’s scary, for I have always known the modern conveniences that have allowed, and in some ways forced, me to live a life of separation and disconnection. Although there’s a wide spectrum of rewilding that any of us can pursue, where I desire to go is beyond what I’ve ever known or seen face to face.
I certainly would not find that, upon this ridge, but maybe I could bring myself one step further. From up above, I got to know the splendor of this land with more depth. To the south, I saw the river meander through the valley. In my mind, Alaska came to the forefront, the only state of the fifty I have not been to. As far as I could see was wilderness, as well as to the west. To the north, I looked up the valley to the lakes beyond. I could see that was true grizzly country, and there were two parts of me present in that moment — the one who wanted to be there and the one who was content right where I was, no grizzly in sight.
Now on top of the ridge, more mountains to the east, and there it was, Lake McDonald, a centerpiece of the park. As I looked closer, I realized I had made a mistake. For in the distance there was a speck of color, a human structure of some sort. One hundred hours without a sign of man on the land, and that ended the run. I felt some pain, but I also accepted it. It will be about 132 hours, 5 ½ days and six nights without seeing another human. Only once, last summer in Olympic National Park, have I gone longer.
What I set out to write was on how I’m feeling, and now the sun having just set, I have exhausted all of what I wanted to share of my day (oh, but the beaver connection!) and will explore my feelings. (Oh, but the pair of loons today and the moose at 11 p.m. last night!) I share my feelings for me and for you. So that I can document the shift as I spend more time alone in nature and to satisfy your queries.
I’ll start with a list of all I’ve felt since walking into the woods: anxious, fearful, joyful, content, happy, blissful, peaceful, interconnected, timeless, melting away/dissolution, loving, full, connected, grateful, excited, inspired, touched, invigorated, refreshed, renewed, rejuvenated, ALIVE, intrigued, curious, fascinated, enthusiastic, alert, concerned, edgy, uncomfortable, distressed, startled, worried, apprehensive, fatigued. (I practice Nonviolent Communication, which is a language based on being in touch with our feelings. I carry the feelings list with me, which helps me pinpoint what I’m feeling.)
What I’d like to explore is anxiety. This is a thread of my life in the wilderness, in the city, anywhere I am. Out here, it can be strong. My anxiety was stimulated by a fear of the grizzlies, a plane flying over my campsite and concern I’d be found, general concern of seeing others, the rising water on my sliver of land; rain, because this secondhand tent turns out to have the wrong rainfly, concern of injuring myself when I’m out exploring, getting in all my chores and my writing, catching enough fish to eat, and right now, most of all, getting back at 11 a.m. tomorrow to the trail head where a friend will be waiting. That’s a lot!
But what I really want to document is how overriding, how strong, how pervasive was my anxiety. I’d say significantly less than past adventures. The last couple days I had very little. I have had more hours of peace, calm, balance and contentment than I have anxiety. Overall, I’m making progress since my last deep immersion. But also, I had near perfect weather conditions on this outing.
Without a doubt what I did not feel, not even for a second, was loneliness. Since I began my break from sex and human romance, and began my yearly silent ten-day meditation, I have felt no loneliness at all — 2 ½ years now. Out here, I felt the opposite of alone: ALIVE, fulfilled, warmhearted, in love and with it all. Nature is my romance, Earth is my lover. The plants and animals fulfill me. And, of course, I have a relationship with me. When we truly love ourselves, then we can love everything and everyone around us. I love myself just the way I am, and there is very little out there that I don’t love.
So the beaver! Today I startled him from shore, about fifty yards from his lodge. He swam off, but shortly he returned. He followed me as I continued toward my camp, away from his home. He came quite close: we could see eye to eye. For me, there was no doubt. He was checking me out. In my mind, the thought arose, “What does the beaver know?”
What does the beaver know?
What does the beaver know?
Deep within me I do feel, surely he knows more.
More than we give her credit for.
Surely he knows more.
It’s a feeling
that is reeling through my core.
Surely they know more.
Surely they know more.
The animals know so much more
than we give them credit for.
Day Seven
The sun rises now on this last day
and I have no wish to leave or stay.
For this, I am equanimous.
Hues of pink, orange, red in the sky,
remind me of the first trout that had me cry.
Tears of relief and tears of joy
the trout has been this since I was a boy.
Perhaps for the trout to me means I’m in a wild space.
I peer upon the lake one last time with calmness in my face.
And at my toes, I see the river has risen to the tent stakes.
Changing, changing; nature is always changing.
This little haven, my own paradise, is giving me a sign.
It’s time to go, with no sadness, for I know the woods and waters
await me in my homeland.
“Mosquitoes: 100 Bites, Maybe Two”
For some, they’d be a nightmare.
They’d give them quite the scare.
Surely they gave me wear and tear.
One hundred bites … maybe two.
This estimate would be true.
I bring no spray,
with bites I pay
to live the natural way.
To many, I’m known as lucky,
but the mosquitoes sure do suck me.
I’m not ungrateful, let’s call it fateful.
For they smell in me the sweetest blood.
There goes another thud.
Palm on knee, I’ve just killed three.
It’s time for me to flee,
but with a calm mentality.
A note of mourning:
I had not done thorough research on the trout in these waters before arriving to know which were native and which were non-native/introduced. There are four species of trout in these waters, two of which are native and two of which are non-native. I had incorrectly thought the trout I caught were non-native rainbow trout which they are working to remove from the lakes. After further research I learned the trout were cutthroat trout, a native which they are currently working to restore to a healthier population. I felt a heavy sense of remorse, sadness and pain when I learned this mistake that I made and I feel it strongly today. I would not have harvested these trout had I done diligent research. I am fully responsible for this mistake
With this pain, I feel some reassurance to know that they have stocked around 100,000 cutthroats in recent years in these waters. My mistake will not cause damage to the population or to the ecosystem. I am committed to never making a mistake like this again, of which I don’t recall ever making in thirty years of fishing. I am committed to being a steward to the waters, lands and the plants and animals we share this home with and doing substantial work in this regard. I am committed to being honest and transparent with my errors in all relations with humanity, the plants and animals we share this home with, and the Earth as a whole. With mourning, sadness and pain inside of me, this is all I can think to share on this matter for now.
