For my 50th birthday, I planned a camping trip that starts with one of my favorite places to camp, right on the tip of the Leealanua Peninsula, so close to beautiful Lake Michigan I can hear the gentle waves from my tent. This trip was supposed to be spent with my guy, yet, here I am, camping alone again. There is a whole history of what lead to this, pieces of which may or may not come forth here, but today, in this moment, just north of Northport, mine is a solitary excursion.
Solitude can be a wonderful healer. We can place ourselves “away” – from distraction, noise, and obligations, at peace in our solitude as our souls reawaken and our senses come alive again. “Solitary” has a bit of a different ring than “solitude” as if a gauze of sadness surrounds that which is – let’s face it – alone, perhaps self-imposed, perhaps not. “Alone,” which feels like a penance somehow, as though there is a fault to find or face, because alone implies lonely, and that is typically not an emotion people seek to experience.
I am no stranger to camping alone. Prior to my daughter, I have a memory of being without a car but wanting to camp, and some friend drove me out to the shore, a good hour one-way, dropped me and my gear at the campground, and dutifully collected me again several days later. There are many trips and many times where I didn’t let the lack of a companion stall my drive for adenture, for travel. In my early years, I gained a great deal of strength from these ventures. Now, in what I suppose are my later years, it is becoming tiring. I would like to share these moments with someone. Though possible, it feels a bit ridiculous to reminesce with oneself.
I did of course have a good 20 or so years in there where I camped with my daughter, which were lovely, incredible, wonderful trips. For the first 5 or so, she’s really too young to remember, but I remember. I remember her sleeping in the tent when she was just maybe 7 months old, while the absolute worst thunderstorm I’ve ever camped through (then or since) howled around us. She still sleeps like that. She has grown into a young woman who not only loves to camp, but who has shared that love with her now-husband. I don’t mean to dismiss those years as inconsequential, because they were in fact monumental to not only her life but mine as well. Sharing those moments with her, special times in special places, places made special through the sharing, only confirm that “the rest of the trips” were by myself. It’s as though I see the trips with my daughter in full color, vibrant and warm, adding to my life in ways that feel expansive and incredibly comforting. My trips in solitude are like Ansel Adams prints in black and white – lovely, yes, crystallized moments, moments that have shaped my inner world deeply.
My life, this primarily solitary journey, has been a series of choices, perhaps some would perceive as missteps or paths followed that lead me astray. I believe we are all doing our best and that the regrets or hardships can be lessons and teach us to love and grow. There is always something good to find, something that resembles love. Something. Some nugget. I must remind myself of this: There are no true mistakes.
I think all this and more of course on the drive up, wishing so badly that my guy would have come with me, but knowing, regardless, that I will find peace in this beautiful area of Michigan. I arrived just before the sun began to seep into the Big Lake as I affectionately call my old friend, Lake Michigan. I pitched my tent, built a fire, strung the hammock, laid all my birthday cards out on the picnic table, and listened to the waves just feet from my campsite, while I began to turn quietly inward. Alone, in nature.
