As I pull into the parking lot, I realize this won’t be one of those days when I have the trails to myself. That’s fine. Even when the lot is full, this park never feels crowded. With miles of trails traversing hilly, wooded terrain, I’ll see other hikers but won’t feel like they’re encroaching on my solitude.
Solo hiking comes with a range of emotions. It can be a wonderful escape, with no concern about how far or fast others want to hike, or what they’ll think every time I stop to look at a bird or a mushroom. I can ramble through the park at my own pace. But it can also be lonely. I’ve had plenty of experiences I wished I could share with someone else. Still, hiking alone leaves a lot of room for reflection and can become almost meditative for me.
As I park my truck in the only open spot, I can already feel my life’s stresses evaporating. That’s one of the reasons I do this. On the trail, there’s no deadline pressure. No lawn to mow. It’s just me and the forest.
Entering the cool shade of the Chestnut Oaks, American Beeches, and Tulip Poplars, I realize my sunglasses are unnecessary here. The trees shelter me from the July morning sun. A few yards farther down the trail, I begin to notice the sounds of birds and cicadas overtaking the din of traffic and the droning of leaf blowers in the distance. This is a small park, hemmed in by developments and roads, so I can still hear those things, but they’re less prominent now. I remember why I came and know choosing to come may have been the best decision I’ll make today.
I come here often. The park is only about 10 minutes from home. It’s my escape, my respite from the constant demands of today’s always-on, always-connected lifestyle. As I continue along the trail, I begin to spot trees that feel like old friends. There’s the oak with the dark stain where I often see hornets. There are the two oaks beneath which I expect to find Honey Mushrooms later this summer. And the massive Tulip Poplar that’s far too big to wrap my arms around.
As I walk, I become aware of the paradox of modern hiking. I come here to reconnect with nature and unplug from the noise of daily life. Yet I’m tracking my progress with GPS on my phone, and when I encounter plants or insects I can’t identify, I use another app to learn about them. I start to wonder if people in preindustrial times might have been more content. They lived without our conveniences, but their lives were simpler, more attuned to the rhythms of the natural world. Maybe I’m idealizing a past that never truly existed, but the thought lingers.
The trail I’m on leads toward a major road; not quite a highway, but close. I come around a bend, and with each step, the sound of traffic gradually overwhelms the birds and insects. It’s a reminder of how boxed in this park is. But I know that in another tenth of a mile or so, the sounds of nature will win out again. My mind drifts to Christopher Knight, who lived as a hermit in the Maine woods for almost 30 years. His encampment was close enough to summer homes for him to pilfer food and clothes. I wonder if he could have hidden in this park for decades without being found.
Hiking through the forest, I feel at ease, like this is what I’m supposed to be doing. A primitive sense of simple satisfaction settles in.
A squirrel crosses the trail ahead of me and quickens its pace when it sees me. “May you be well. May you be happy. May you be free from suffering,” I whisper, recalling a Zen mantra intended to spread loving-kindness. That mantra often echoes through my head while I’m hiking. I feel connected to the other living things around me, plant and animal alike. While I’m here, I don’t make any distinction between the forest and myself. I become part of it, even if I’m only a visitor.
As I descend a steep section of the trail, I reach a wooden staircase. The last step at the bottom is a few feet higher than the trail below. My inner child arises. Suddenly, I’m nine years old again. I can’t just step off. I have to jump. So I do. And when I land, the child is gone. Satisfied with the brief encounter, I’m left hoping he comes to play again soon.
I’m about 40 minutes into my hike and start wondering why more people don’t do this. For me, it’s so energizing, so refreshing to my soul.
It’s warming up now, and I’m thankful the humidity is low enough to really enjoy the outdoors. It is July, and even though it’s late morning, I’m aware of how much hotter it could be. My knee starts reminding me I’m not as young as I used to be, and I do my best to ignore it. Whatever aches it may have, even my knee knows being out here is worth it.
By the time I return to the parking lot, I’m steeped in a deep sense of gratitude and satisfaction. My knee feels fine, the mid-summer heat isn’t unbearable, and best of all, I know I’ll be back before too long.
I climb back into my truck and carry the stillness with me. It won’t be long before the stresses of modern living seep back in, but for now, everything is right.