solitude
I’ll mention the small Idaho town and the people we met there or the camping in national landmarks. Or the coast, the ocean, the drinking, the time away—all listed as highlights when anyone asks. That’s not exactly true.
Almost two weeks on the road, mostly in a car at various speeds, and the real apex involved stars—thousands of them.
For as long as I remember, I’ve enjoyed the quiet. I’ve always had a fondness for time alone, to gather my thoughts, process and relax.
Sometimes it takes a month, others a few hours, but eventually quiet replaces the din. Now, those times are rare. It’s been months since there was silence.
Even in unemployment, where time is in surplus, there is noise. The dull hum of having to stay in, to save money. Plates crashing to the floor when bills come due. The barely-audible squeal of others’ expectations.
The moon was bright but clouds cast vast shadows over the crest of the mountains. After the hike up their rocky slopes and the grueling jog back down, my muscles buzz. A light breeze was crisp, refreshing.
I walk down the road, leaving the campsite and nearing the beach. A path opens to my left. I follow it, down the hill and past the picnic tables leaning up against trees. In the light of my headlamp they glow the sickly, pale gray.
The stones on the beach shift, scraping lightly against each other under my feet. The water laps against them twenty feet in front of me. Across the lake, the colossal shadows of the mountains loom.
Through the clouds, stars glitter. There are so many this far from everywhere.
To the right, slivers of light from the parking lot give texture and edges to the beach and forest. There’s only the faint smack of water over stones. Everything is still.
The silence engulfs me, muting the buzzing, humming and squealing. There is comfort in the solitude. The trip, despite the cost, is entirely worth it.