Gift of the Desert, II

I am a woman, traveling alone. When I first began hiking alone, I was often afraid, of men, mostly. Of rape. But as I spent more time alone in the backcountry, I began to celebrate that solitude, long for it.

Instead of celebration, however, I find that my aloneness is most often met with amazement or dismay. Hiking down from the saddle in the Rockies, I met a couple, and stood aside as they climbed up. “And there’s another behind you, I expect” was the man’s greeting.

Camped in the Arapaho National Forest in Colorado, I passed a woman gathering firewood. (She was camping with a man.)
“Just you alone in that tent?”
“Yep.”
“Do you do this a lot?”
“This summer, I am.”
“You don’t… have any problems?”

While I have not encountered anyone who wished me physical harm, I find the expectation of harm toxic. Encountered suspicions gnaw at my confidence and remind me that my solo travels are unusual, unexpected and, some would suggest, unsafe. I’m not afraid, but I’m also not dumb. My family knows my plan; when I’m out for a hike I’ve usually let a ranger know where I am. You won’t find my planned route on this blog. When I sign into a campsite or trail register, I use my first initial: “J” could be Jason as easily as Jennifer.

***

I rise early from my campsite in the apricot orchard. The sun has not yet crested the reef and the valley holds the cool of night. I follow a trail, switchbacking up and up. White-throated Swifts’ calls, like fingers plucking comb tines, echo off of the canyon walls. I reach the mouth of the hanging canyon and step into sunlight. I raise my arms above my head in greeting and welcome the warmth. Down through the canyon, I find evidence of yesterday’s rain. A pothole cups water, reflects sky. At the base of side canyons sand holds the shape of running water, carved like muscles into channels, deltas and fans. Here, the water ran, and here, and here. A Rock Wren edges nervously to a puddle and drinks. The trail follows the wash then rises above the canyon floor onto the slickrock. I sit in the shade of a Juniper. Rooted to the rock, I breathe in and out; I loose water. I do not think safe or unsafe, should or should not. I simply am. I drink and spill a few drops on the ground in thanks.

This is why I woke early: to sit tall and alone in the desert; to understand that I am not separate from the vastness that surrounds me, from the ancient seabed that supports me; to sit open eyed and open-hearted to what this landscape has to offer—patterns of light and shadow, unwary movements of animals, the slow passage of time. This is the second gift of the desert: Solitude.