Solitude

This piece first appeared in February 26th, 2009 edition of the Pioneer Tribune, a weekly newspaper from Manistique, Michigan. Please visit their website: http://www.pioneertribune.com/

In my mid 20s I left what many people would call comforts and necessities for a life of what many might call pain and suffering.

I started living in an old school bus that my good friend Don had converted into a camper. It was set up on a small chunk of land that Don’s uncle owned. Don’s brother, Mike, had a camper parked on the property as well. A large fire pit between the two completed the compound.

The Last Chance Outpost, as it was known, was the woodland extension of the Last Chance Garage; a place Don and Mike’s father had built for them to work on their vehicles. Occasionally, undertakings of the mechanical sort did go on there, but for the most part it was a place to drink beer. The Outpost mirrored that purpose.

I didn’t really start living at the Outpost intentionally, it just kind of happened.

It was in November, just before deer season. I had just broken up with a girlfriend, and getting away to the solitude of the woods seemed like a good idea. Solitude for a 20-something during deer season only applies to the time that you are sleeping or passed-out. The solitude of the waking hours was filled with a mixture of the other guys who were staying at the Outpost and the assorted “hunters” who would somehow find their way there.

Deer season came to an end and everyone else went home, but for some reason I stayed there.

At first I was a little uncomfortable with the true solitude that life at the Outpost offered. There was no electricity and no running water. No TV.

I was able to do a lot of reading, but reading can only fill so much time. A campfire is great with a group of friends, but standing around a campfire alone seemed pointless. I started to spend my evenings at the nearest bar. The Tioga was 10 miles away over roads that were more or less over-glorified deer trails. The Tioga was in the middle of nowhere, but it had a reputation known far and wide. It could be a wild place, especially on the weekends.

After a few months in the bar, seeing the same sorry faces night after night, the solitude of the woods grew in its appeal. It was quite amazing how, in such a relatively short time, all of the things that seemed so necessary became so insignificant. I grew to appreciate the absence of “necessities” in the world that was the Last Chance Outpost.

Eventually, I would buy my own camper and move it to the Outpost. It was nothing fancy, just one of those compact units that fit in the back of a pickup truck. With its bunk, stove, heater and ice-box, I was all set. There was a creek bordering the property, and I could bath and wash clothes in it when a visit to my parents house wasn’t practical.

Instead of going to the bar after work, I started to take long walks through the woods. I had a very good knowledge of the roads and streams that were in the area but I didn’t know what was to be found deeper in the woods. I would pick a direction and just start walking. Usually, I brought just a canteen with me. I never brought a compass because I knew that I wouldn’t get lost and I didn’t care if I did. I would just walk until I came to a familiar road or stream and then follow it back to the Outpost.

I discovered a world that few people get a chance to see. The world that exists well off of the beaten path.

I have crossed paths with countless black bears. I have heard, on several occasions, the sound of a cougar wailing at night. The DNR said that they no longer existed in Michigan, but those of us who spent real time in the woods knew otherwise. Almost more unnerving than the sound of a cougar is the cry of a porcupine. The first time I heard the sound I thought that someone had left a baby in the woods.

I learned new skills while on these walks, like being able to follow what were once roads in the early part of the last century by looking at the tops of the trees that had grown up where the road had once been. I learned about patience while locating a drumming grouse and a great deal more of it by following them through the woods as they would fly and then run. These skills came in handy when bird season came around.

I also learned that there is a vast difference between being alone and being lonely. I learned that happiness can and does exist in solitude. That solitude taught me to appreciate my friends.

I think that the most valuable thing I learned while living in the woods was what things are really important in life. I learned that all of the things that money can buy are nothing more than that. In the end, they are nothing more than things.