Alone At Last

The story of one man’s big misadventure in Big Sur, from a disastrous river crossing, to a lost boot, to the realization that life, even at its most frustrating, is sometimes best lived alone.

I could’ve spent the night at the spectacular Ventana Big Sur. Or maybe even the Post Ranch Inn, one of the finest hotels in the world. Instead, I had a different plan for this particular late-autumn weekend: to sleep beneath the stars in an almost mythical camping spot, a Big Sur backcountry gem guarded by natural hot springs and shaded by redwoods. It wouldn’t be easy to reach, but I’d get there, driven by the promise that motivates all of my solo trips: a day designed and tailored exactly to my tastes, with no sign of compromise, and executed to perfection.

I’d left my campsite at the perfect time: in the cold early morning before the trail filled with day hikers — cowards who didn’t have the same rugged taste for sleeping alongside the river. I’d eaten a just-sufficient number of calories for breakfast and packed a precise weight of power bars to keep me going up into the mountains without weighing me down. I reveled in valley views and watched goldfinches flutter against the orange bark of the invasive but not un-beautiful Australian rubber tree, and still made wonderful time through the trail. On this day, it seemed I would never make a bad decision again.

I walked for mile after mile until I reached a river. The river. On the other side lay my prized camping spot. But the river was angry that day, my friends, and running over. To cross it meant the water would overtake my perfectly chosen Gore-Tex boots. And so the time had come for another choice. I removed my shoes and socks, pleased that I would cheat the devil of causing me even a trickle of inconvenience.

Prior this this, I’d spied a couple far ahead of me who were making the crossing themselves. They seemed to have kept their shoes on, apparently resigned to finish their hike freezing from the ankles down. I suppose I could’ve sprinted up and asked why, but they quickly vanished from sight — and anyway, I hate talking to strangers. Some see conversing with strangers as such a major part of traveling solo that they’re put off from the whole idea. For me, solo travel is much more about self-indulgence disguised as self-reliance. Alone, you’re free to give way to your most off-putting idiosyncrasies. Spend an hour in the antique shop full of daggers. Ride the Ferris Wheel over and over again. Whatever floats your boat.

So no, I did not ask the couple ahead of me if they had expertise on crossing an unexpectedly rushing stream. Instead, I congratulated myself on another great decision as I took my boots and socks in my hands, braced for a steady step onto the first rock, and toppled instantly into the water, which was deeper than anticipated.

Had I asked, those hikers might have told me that you never remove footwear to cross a river, because the traction provided by bare feet leads to an inevitable, now obvious result. Briefly horizontal in the water, I was unhurt but soaked and worried for my supplies — especially the dry clothes, as well as the phone I had cleverly stored for ease of access in the fanny pack around my waist.

But the real problem was that as I hit the water, one of the boots in my hand had begun its own merry solo voyage down the river. And it was on an astonishing mission. More determined than I had ever been, it dodged every rock and stick that might have possibly impeded its progress, high-tailing to the unreachable section of river around the bend.

I did consider in that instant that, success or failure, this was going to make for a great story (provided my sanity survived the 12-mile hike back up and over the rocky mountains on one bare foot). And no one would be hurt but me — another benefit of being a solo traveler. Snapping back into the moment, adrenaline flooding my fingers to the point I couldn’t unclasp my pack, I knew I had to catch the runaway boot or else face the prospect of begging for rescue from the California taxpayer, among the worst versions of talking to strangers I can imagine.

I splashed up the river, slipping over and over again back into the water. Things were going from bad to worse. Just barely thinking logically, some subconscious forest-dwelling instinct took me over to the shore, where I galloped barefoot over leaves, protruding tree roots, and wet, uneven ground until the final accessible riverbank.

I stood in the water like a heron scanning for minnows. I hate a challenge. Remember, I don’t travel solo for the purposes of self-growth. I don’t try to be more present or in touch with myself. Actually, I’d hiked all the way here listening to an audiobook about a space mission to rescue earth from sun-eating algae. Now I was faced with some highly unintentional character building. The only question was just how much character was I about to build.

I asked my body to calm down. I took deep breaths in the face of my last chance at self-sufficiency. Gathering all my willpower, I prepared my own Project Hail Mary and forced myself to look slowly at every section of the river, scanning like a highly emotional RoboCop, trying to suppress all that coding telling me to lie down and scream.

When I saw the boot at last, its dark rubber camouflaged against the dark water, a tiny logjam just holding the heel in place, I felt an indescribable surge of panic — a deep, primordial questioning of whether I was up to the rescue. I splashed awkwardly towards the size ten boat that was once my shoe and dove onto it just as it broke loose for good. Whatever came next I could handle. I had my footwear. Self-reliant once again.

Perfect day: off the table. I was cold-wet, the worst kind of cold and wet, but my equipment and food had survived. Not ideal, but. My headphones had died but my phone was alive, now flashing a warning that it was too wet to charge. So instead of a night perusing the downloaded entertainment I’d thoughtfully curated for myself, I spent the night drying my boots on a shoddily hung ripcord from my emergency supplies, finally alone with my thoughts.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, a series of trials and errors as I tried to guess if a boot dries best upright or facedown, walked gingerly barefoot around the damp leaves and sharp twigs of my campground, rueing that fires were strictly forbidden in the backcountry but knowing, in any case, that recent rains and my own lack of camping skill meant I would never have been able to light one if I tried. My camping stove had survived the incident; I warmed myself with a freeze-dried kung pao and couldn’t help but reflect how, despite my best efforts, adventure, challenge, and self-growth had snuck into the trip — I hadn’t looked for them, but I’d survived them.

I climbed into my sleeping bag, zipped up my tent and woke at the crack of dawn to soaked boots. With the last of my phone charge, I pressed play on my audiobook, stubbornly refusing to reflect a moment more, and squished my way back up the mountain.