End of season

"I fish because I love to. Because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness."

So reads a plaque at the carry-in boat launch at the Forks on the Boardman River, AKA Ottaway. I felt that way for years, contenting myself with solo adventures to all manner of forested locales, from sinkholes to cliffs to desolate beaches to islands in the middle of Lake Superior (how have I still not done a post about Isle Royale? Soon).

And for years, it was just me. There were a few times when I had someone to bring along on these trips, and I've written about the joys of hiking with friends before. But I formed my own plans, set my own destination and made my own memories for so long that it seemed like that's how it always would be.

I had plenty of good times, to be sure. In 2012 I started a sort of annual tradition of making a trek to the Upper Peninsula, and went to a lot of cool places (although there are many more I still want to see, chiefly Porcupine Mountains). I found contentment by myself on these solo trips and for the most part, I wasn't lonely. But there were times when I wished I had someone with whom to share the experience.

Now I do, and an interesting thing happened when I went out to try to catch some trout on the last day of the season in 2021. It finally occurred to me that maybe the chapter in my life where I set my own path, go my own way and act alone is over.

My visit to the Forks was the first in four years, probably since my camping trip there where the group at a neighboring site befriended me. Normally late-night partiers at campgrounds cause lots of agony but that night I joined the party, and we all jammed around the campfire until the wee hours that random summer evening.

It's hard to recall the exact feeling when I returned, being over a year and a month ago. And what a year (and a month) it's been. But this does come to mind: after scanning satellite photos, topo maps and even property line charts, I found the spot I was looking for. An isolated road crossing in the woods, near which ran the North Country Trail (which has a habit of winding through many beautiful places around here).

The Boardman/Ottaway runs roughly from the northeast to southwest in that part, snaking and twisting as it does. And the North Country Trail takes hikers more or less along the northerly river bank. So I followed it toward the southwest for a bit, spying a large campsite on the other side of the river. Judging by the looks of it, this was their home base and not just fun times in the forest.

It was an absolutely glorious day to be in the woods, that I recall well. I didn't catch much, but I didn't care. It felt so good to be there alongside the river in such a wild if relatively well-explored place.

I had a thought then that I've had many times since then when I'm alone in the woods. The feeling that I'm glad to be out, sure, and it feels good to be on the trail again, but I wish I had my partner there with me. When you marry, you agree to share your life with your spouse. Obviously it doesn't mean we do everything together, and there are times when she's perfectly content to stay home while I head out for some forest therapy.

But at others, I find myself hiking on the trail and missing her, wishing we could be sharing the experience together. Including yesterday.

Not that it could've been helped. She was working and I was home sick. Bored of sitting around, I headed out for a hike in a place where I've been before: Cedar Run Natural Area. It's a sprawling, oddly shaped preserve that contains long stretches of its namesake creek, an old railroad grade and a cabin. I once thought I should keep that last part a secret but it's been vandalized almost beyond usability, so the point seems moot now.

I wanted so badly to show her the beauty of Cedar Run gurgling through the woods, to ask her what she imagined as she thought back to the days when train tracks ran down that straight, narrow grade, to get her thoughts on the tragedy of the vandalism.

And to see if she shared in my hope that some people aren't so bad after all.

Yes, some humans organize others to do good things, and they build lasting improvements for public places together.

These thoughts show me that I don't have to be alone in the woods anymore, that it's fine if I am and make that choice. But there is a choice, and now I can choose to share these experiences I've taken in alone all these years.

So thank you, Saraí, for being my partner, and agreeing to share these moments and so many more.