The Power of Solo Travel
I went on my first solo trip when I graduated college - it was a 5-day road trip out to Glacier National Park in Montana. I landed a new job and had a week to myself before my first day of work. So naturally, I took advantage of the free time I had and decided to venture into the wilderness.
I was so excited to begin this adventure and had a plan to hike as many trails as I could in my short time in the park. With plenty of music and an excited heart, I began my 9-hour drive out to Glacier National Park. I was ambitious and determined to not waste a single minute of my time, so I decided to drive straight to Montana without stopping to rest. I arrived at my AirBnB in Whitefish, Montana at 9pm that evening, and didn’t have time to think about much. I took a quick shower, got into my pajamas, and crawled into my king-sized bed.
I woke up early the next morning to begin collecting trail miles like a child collecting candy on Halloween. After hiking 18 miles and exhausting my legs, I stopped in at a brewery in downtown Whitefish. I walked into the loud and moderately busy brewery, and sat at the bar alone - something I’d never done before. After ordering a beer and a bite to eat, I instantly jumped on my phone out of discomfort for sitting at a restaurant alone. Too bad for me, cell service was spotty in the rural town of Whitefish, so I was soon forced to put down my phone and recognize my aloneness in the midst of the chaos. Finishing my meal over the unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty, I was happy to break the tension and retreat back to the comfort of my AirBnB.
I sat in the silence of my red, one-bedroom guesthouse with no cell-service under the big picturesque night sky, and I was once again deprived of my usual distractions. As I resigned to the silence and stillness of the Montana farmland, the protective wall of distractions I built in my mind began to crumble, and I was forced to face the true condition of my heart.
Afraid of finding myself in a pit of loneliness and terrified of falling back into the shackles of a dark past, I had taught myself how to disengage my emotions so I could swiftly tackle life’s challenges without triggering an unexpected avalanche of emotion. Nine hours away from the safety and comforts of life, I had no choice but to surrender to the weight of my emotions and I slowly began to unbox the pain I had carefully stored away in my heart.
I cried a lot on that trip. My tears fell along the rocky, empty, hiking trails. The sound of my sobbing was absorbed by the thick moss and bark of the trees around me. My desperate prayers got lost among the wind and rain. The weight of my emotions were much heavier than the pack on my back, and the strain on my heart blocked out the soreness of my legs.
But somewhere in those 5 days, as I pushed through my tiredness and continued to put one foot in front of the other, I learned about the paths laid out before me. I familiarized myself with the soreness of my legs, and let it be a reminder of my physical strength. The silence gifted me with a special look into the livelihood of the undisturbed forest. The bears, deer, elk, and birds welcomed me into their home, as if the promise of silence granted me access to the kingdom of the wild.
Once afraid of what truths lie in the stillness and terrified of being silenced by the weight of my emotions, I found comfort in hearing my own strong voice guiding me through life. The beating drum of busyness and orchestra of chaos was a reminder that I existed. Alone on the trails of Glacier National Park, though terrified of the power of silence, I emptied my hands of the noises of life. Expecting to disappear into the silence of the mountains, I quieted the voices of self-doubt and pushed away the damaging words of the world around me. I felt more deeply the expanding and contracting of my chest as the crisp mountain air filled my lungs, the quiet, melodic sound of my restful exhale distinctly standing out against the inconsistent whistle of the wind through the trees. And even quieter still, the rhythmic sound of my beating heart, quietly reminding me of my complex formation, though not trying to prove its existence.
My time in Glacier National Park was the first of many solo trips. As I continue to travel alone and practice spending time alone, I’ve become more aware of my inner demons, my weaknesses and my thought tendencies. From time to time, I need to be reminded of my value and worth. Sometimes I need to reevaluate my priorities, realign my morals, and reignite my passions. There are times I need to feel the weight of my brokenness so I can learn to ask for help, and other times I need to be reminded of my strength to rebuild.
Traveling solo gives you the power to transform and grow in a way you never could in the routine of your daily life. So tell me, where are you going next?
