On Solitude

I notice that I camp in a peculiar way when I'm hiking alone. I like solitude, and I like to be away from the crowd, but there's a strident part of me that wants people nearby. I stop short of camping at hiker central. Those sites are a bit ugly anyway. But if I truly wanted solitude (and I often profess that I do) I could easily get it. Even out here. A trip across the river, a short climb and there we have it. But hiking alone, I realize, I don't want absolute seclusion. I'm glad the two gents are camped across the river-and a little jealous now that I see that they have a minor campfire going-because my personality can play off them. Maybe that's not it, or perhaps that's just too vague. Solitude can sometimes undermine my sense of self. What that probably means is that when I'm completely alone, I don't know exactly who I am, or confronted by what might be the absolute "me" I don't know quite how to act. Does that mean my self-conscious is completely wrapped up in what I perceive to be others' impressions of me? Could this be any more like a Chinese box? Who knows? I just think it's interesting how things change when one camps alone. Face to face with the mirror of solitude. Aloneness vs. Loneliness.

I also find it amusing that some puzzle enthusiast is going to do an Internet search on the words, "Chinese box" and get this page.

One thing's for sure. Alone, I write far more in this journal. I've written the same number of pages in the past week as I did during the entire first portion of the trip. I guess I have to express myself somewhere, and if there's no one else around I can't blabber my thoughts out loud.. Besides, alone, if I forget, who's going to remember?

A Marten

I think I saw a marten today. Coming up towards Donahue Pass I sensed a commotion in the trees ahead. An excited squirrel. I'd seen many squirrels on this leg of the trip and often as not, they're excited as hell about something. Usually me. I caught sight of this one on a tree trunk, where I think they feel most at home. This one was acting peculiar. His whole body was in a paroxysm of some kind, almost jerking from his perch but apparently not daring to move up or down the trunk. I stopped, not wanting to give the poor guy a coronary. The squirrel saw me, I was certain. Just as I was wondering why it hadn't fled, something peered at me fro the other side of the trunk. It had a fox-like head, rounded furry ears and shiny little beads where its eyes might have been. Of course. It was clear now. The poor squirrel was cornered. Terrified of the open ground, but fully aware that it shared the tree with something larger and toothier than itself. The marten sized me up and decided to head the other way. Its body was long, like a ferret's, and it reminded me of a slinky as it loped up the hill, throwing the occasional backward glance to make sure I was still standing there in abject stupefaction.

I'd always wanted to see a marten, but knew they were rare at best in the Sierra and more likely to be sighted in the winter when camouflage is scarce. Another excellent encounter for me, and if somewhere deep in their ping-pong ball minds squirrels have any sense of gratitude, there's one out there who'd like to give me an acorn or two for saving its life.