I was buying this car, I told myself, so I could get away from traffic. In the summer of 1970, I purchased the first car I ever owned, a 1962 or ‘64 or maybe ’66, golden brown Ford station wagon. Like so many others back then, I was eager to leave the city of San Francisco; I was getting out. Freedom, just like the American myth says, freedom has its own wheels and comfy seats. Gas was only 28 cents a gallon. So, I was on my way.
I headed out across the Bay Bridge, through Berkeley and out east on I-80, past Sacramento and into the Sierras. The mountains. My plan was to spend much of the summer around Nevada City where my friend Keith had a cabin. I wouldn’t have a cabin, though, since I was daring myself to go back to nature in a big way. I would spend my time in the forest hiking and camping. I had my sleeping bag and my dog and other assorted gear and planned to spend days and nights exploring the wilderness of the Sierras. I’d be living out of my car when I wasn’t walking.
The Sierra Nevada are spectacularly beautiful mountains, especially for being so heavily traveled. You can still—at least, in 1970 you could still—really get away. Really find peace and find a quiet that was absolute. It was a quiet that was so complete that it fairly roared with no sound. Oh, there was the occasional buzz of an insect, the call of a bird, a crackling tree branch, but in the heat of the day, not much else. At night, the quiet dark was broken only by the howling of the coyotes as they formed their packs for hunting.
I was alone. Alone at last. Completely alone. Oh, the sweet solitude.
It was crushing. The silence was nothing less than ear-splitting. I could feel it like a weight on my ear drums. I could hear the sound of nothing. I could hear nothingness. I had never before in my life been in a place with a near total absence of sound. There was no background noise. The only noise was the noise of nature and nature usually isn’t very noisy.
And it was scary. In the dark, I was convinced a bear was tramping through the forest to munch on my bones when actually it was a ground squirrel scampering through the leaves and brush on the forest floor.
I loved it. And it was driving me crazy. I found that I loved my solitude but I didn’t care much for being alone. Solitude is something to cherish and an experience that can enrich life. It is also a common form of torture and can eat away a psyche. Solitude can give you strength and it can kill your strength.
And now long after that brave summer, I still value solitude—from time to time, like having the house to myself or meditating on a mountainside or taking a trip to the Shambhala Mountain retreat center to sit before their big Buddha. A bit of solitude is a big help to regaining perspective. But I’m not overly keen on being alone much. When Jamie goes away on one of his periodic business trips, I relish being alone in the house and doing whatever I want when I want without having his schedule to consider. After two days of this, the house gets to be a silent, empty, lonely place.
I actually have found it is possible to capture a bit of solitude—yes, solitude comes in bits unless you’re the desert island type—in a downtown Denver coffee shop where I frequently retreat to do things like withdraw and read or begin writing little essays to read on Monday afternoons.
I’m a city person and like having people around even if I don’t know them or do anything with them. Urban solitude is more of an internal state, a sense of self and a sense of privacy even when you’re in public.
So, I don’t need mountain forests to find respite and retreat. A nice afternoon nap in my quiet basement will do, thanks. Maybe some Tibetan bowls ringing softly to define the quiet while chasing away the crush of silence.
About the Author
Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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