I travel quite frequently. Sometimes I travel with my wife and daughter, sometimes I travel with friends, and sometimes I travel alone. There are reasons why I do this that probably don’t need explanation, yet some people question my motive when traveling alone. Don’t I get bored? Lonely? Isn’t that weird?
My short answer is almost always “no”. I love the comfort of solitude. Sometimes, I need it. There are times when I don’t really want to talk, or be talked to. I don’t want anyone to try to sell me anything. I don’t want to get caught up in an algorithm. I need to shake the heavy burden of a society obsessed with smarmy political discourse, manufactured fear and divisiveness, and breaking updates. In these situations, nature is almost invariably my sanctuary. Nature doesn’t care about society’s problems, it carries on more or less the way it has for millions of years.
So I was slightly taken aback when, on a recent trip to Indianapolis, I felt lonely. I felt like I was missing out on something greater than what I was experiencing. I was living through Hurricane Helene at her northernmost reach, and then the dreary, misty day that followed. Oddly, I did not attend the first full day of ColubridFest - the reason for my travels - because I didn’t feel like sitting through a symposium. This event would have put me in contact with other like-minded folks, but I knew almost no one there and wasn’t feeling particularly gregarious.
Instead, I hiked a lot, begging for nature’s acceptance. It was hard to tell if she was willing to do that. I spent a lot of time looking for the always elusive Kirtland’s snake. A patch of habitat supporting this species remains near the city. But the cool conditions, and a lack of suitable cover, prevented me from finding any of the precious natricines. I did find a couple of Jefferson’s salamanders as well as a smattering of young-of-year green and cricket frogs.
I decided early on that I was going to just hike all day. So after finding a few amphibians, I just pushed forward, the looming forest my only company.
I decided to sit and rest at the base of a large bur oak tree overlooking a tall and steep riverbank. The ground was covered with recently-fallen acorns. There wasn’t a soul around. I sat quietly, imagining a lone indigenous castaway in the same setting, in a time forgotten.
Back on my feet, I suppressed the pain in my lower back (a nagging fractured vertebrae from a year ago) as I climbed over fresh, leafy downed trees. The hurricane didn’t lift without leaving a few parting gifts. At my age and in my condition, navigating the crown of a large, wet tree on its side presents quite a challenge. I put a lot of faith into some skinny branches and thankfully I made it through without further complications (read: I still got it).
For miles I hiked, unsure exactly what it was I sought. Exercise, at the very least. Hours passed, but the sky remained unchanged. A fine mist would occasionally blow through, which pleased the slugs but complicated my trek as it would for anyone that wears glasses. At one point, the forest gave way to a large reservoir, and the path traced the edge for a distance. This is where I saw a few other hikers. Pairs or small groups of people, chatting on about the everyday trivial stuff. And wishing “that sun would just come out!”.
At the end of the day, I returned to my car, drove back to the hotel, and crashed. The following morning, I drove to ColubridFest for its final day. It was fun, but my heart was elsewhere.
I look back fondly on my past years, and I look forward to what the future brings. But right now, I’m living the best years of my life. I am privileged to say this, and I’m keenly aware that the reason for this is my family. Without them, life would be one long, gray existence.
At home, when I opened my front door, my eight year old daughter ran and threw her little arms around my neck. And just then, the sun came out.
