Do you ever get Lonely on Adventures?

  • How do you deal with long periods of being alone on a solo adventure? – Bryn
  • When you’re alone and grinding a long segment of your travels, what do you tend to think about?
  • How do you cope with the feelings of loneliness when solo travelling, and what advice would you give to overcome it? – Adrian // Evan // Duncan
  • Do you prefer microadventures alone or with friends? – Elisa
“Dreams have only one owner at a time. That’s why dreamers are lonely.” – Erma Bombeck

The fear of being lonely is a natural, significant and frequent concern of people considering a solo adventure. And rightly so: it can be an awful, soul-wracking experience when you are travelling.

I think of myself puking and shivering in a squalid roadside guesthouse in India, too weak to crawl across the floor to my water bottle. I remember with dismay the wild bucking of emotions that led to me crying for days (in a squalid roadside guesthouse) in Damascus, overwhelmed by the enormity of attempting to cycle around the planet. I have ached with homesickness, and yearned desperately to hug those I have left behind.

Yet, be warned: loneliness does not only stalk the solo traveller. It is there on an Arctic expedition, hauling a heavy sledge in single file, your insecurities hidden from the world by a thick hood and mirrored goggles. It is with you in the middle of an ocean, rowing through the night within touching distance of your friend, yet unable to articulate your fears. It is in there with the guilt, hiding in your sleeping bag in the claustrophobia of a small tent next to the expedition partner who you are growing to despise.
“Not a day went by when I did not question what I was doing. In some ways my wonderful adventure had been the worst eight months of my life. It had certainly been the saddest and the loneliest. But we both knew that I had had to go away; I needed to do it.”
 

But, despite this, I also think that loneliness is a very important reason to go on an adventure. Spending even 24 hours alone, offline, and in near silence is very rare for most of us these days.  (Not only that: some of the loneliest periods of my life have been when I have not been away on an adventure, rather struggling to get by in the bustle of busy real life.)

There is also an important distinction to make between boredom and loneliness. Which one are you actually scared of?

Being bored these days, is rare. The train’s 10 minutes late: scroll through Instagram. The train ride is long: open Instapaper. The remote, gorgeous, Instagrammable AirBnB begins to feel too remote: binge-watch Netflix. Boredom is dead.

And so I cry, “long live boredom!”

Being bored is important. Bored leads to insights, revelations, and a filtration of your ideas and goals.

Therefore I would urge you not to hide from boredom on your adventures: don’t download films to your phone to watch in the tent; don’t even look at your phone in the tent. Better still: seek out adventures far from phone reception.

After a weary, trudging day comes the long, silent evening in your tent. Evenings without phone signal can drag. But I choose to delight in them. I nearly always carry a book, no matter how short, long or ultralight the journey. I always carry a notebook and while away lots of time jotting things down. I make cups of tea on a stove or fire, often with popcorn (2 tablespoons of kernels magically becomes four filling cups).

I pootle around a bit. Climb a hill. Sit by a stream. Throw pebbles at a tree stump. 

I fix torn trousers. Stare at clouds. Watch for the first star to emerge. I go to sleep very early and wake up feeling splendid at dawn.

The slow under-stimulation of being off-grid and offline is hard at first for our frazzled, frenzied minds to deal with. But it adds such depth to a journey, even compared to an identical adventure but with phone signal or a partner to talk with. These things divert you from the enormity of the landscape and the tiny, rattling, repeating loops inside your head! “O God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.” O God, the world is so peaceful and my brain is so bonkers. 
“None of this helped my state of mind which had already plumbed new depths of loneliness. Homesick, deeply upset by separation from Sarah and struck at last by the enormity of the task I had set myself, I felt overwhelmed.”
Time by yourself and time inside your own head is one of the most powerful and ultimately rewarding parts of adventures. It is not easy though. It can be disconcerting not to have a long to-do list for the day, not to be distracted by pings and beep, not to be able to pass the time nattering. It can become lonely.

“Know thyself” proclaimed the temple at Delphi thousands of moons ago. Lonely adventures help with this process. How can you accept yourself if you don’t know yourself? How can you be sure what are the best decisions to make in life if you have never had the protracted time and space necessary to thoroughly know yourself?

Better still, this time alone –this lonely time– is an opportunity to notice ways in which you have changed. That the answers to “know thyself” are different now to what they once were.

You do not want a gulf in your life to form between who you are and who you think you are.
“Trapped in the loneliness of crowds, I stopped riding and sat down on the dirt track. I hid my tears behind my sunglasses and big hat as the inevitable crowd gathered around, emerging from nowhere to buzz around me, prowling, frolicking, probing, sniggering, provoking. In the midst of these crowds I felt isolated, out of my depth, out of control and alone. My ride felt shallow and indulgent.”
However, having gone all philosophical on you there, let me tell you the truth of what I think about when I’m alone on a trip: literally everything I see! I carry a small notebook and pencil so that I can jot down any interesting thoughts or observations without having to stop.

But most of the time it’s not particularly noteworthy. I’m thinking about that little bird over there and ooh, that puddle looks like cappuccino, mmm, I could do with a coffee now, and a cake? No, a doughnut, no one of those twisty things, what are they called? A yum yum! Yum! I’m hungry, let’s stop, no not yet, let’s push on a bit, I’ve got X miles to do in Y days so if I can do Z today I’ll get half a day extra rest, plus I need to buy food today so I have to find a shop before closing… etc. etc. etc.

I vividly remember that I was less than three miles into my ride around the world when I first thought, “I’ve run out of things to think about! Maybe I’m not such an interesting person to spend time with as I’d hoped!”

A lot of time is spent on practical considerations: distances, timings, calculations galore about supplies, repairs, route choices, finding safe places to sleep and so on.

When you film your journey the days are genuinely very busy: endless thoughts about camera angles, cutaways, battery capacity, story ideas roll round endlessly in my head. It’s really time-consuming to deal with.
“We have only been rowing for four days yet already I have a really strong sense of detachment, of having left the world behind. Perhaps that is why I have so enjoyed our visits from swooping petrels and the little jellyfish with sails that bob by, running on their way with the wind. I am not sure whether I resent or relish the modern technologies on board which diminish this sense of separation.”
Beyond the practical thoughts of the day, being alone is also an inevitable opportunity to reflect on your life back home in the real world.

This is what Ranulph Fiennes called ‘mind travel’ – part scheming, part escaping from the present.

I dream up future expeditions (“I’m so cold here, my next trip will definitely be in a desert!”  // “I’m so hot here, my next trip will definitely not be in a desert!”).

I dream up future job ideas (usually running a cafe / book shop features somewhere).

I plan my dream home.

I vow to remain expedition fit when I get home. I determine to be a better, kinder person.

Does it succeed? Honestly? For a few days. And then normal old Al climbs out of the closet and life resumes pretty much as it was before the epiphanies of the lonely road.
“I miss those I left behind. Being alone adds a lick of lonely melancholy to the lovely moments. I can never share these memories with anybody. But being alone also adds a sheen of silence to each sunset and moonrise; the greedy pleasure of having it all to myself. Nobody within thousands of miles knows who I am. Nobody knows my name. I can be intimidated by that or relish the freedom it offers.”
If you are planning an adventure but scared of being lonely, I’d urge you to give it a try, even just for 24 hours. Seek out some slowness, silence, boredom, and -yes- even loneliness.

For, in doing so, you might also cross the magical invisible threshold that separates loneliness from solitude. And solitude is one of the absolute thrills of adventure. To know that you are out here a thousand miles from your home, walking a road other men have gone down, seeing a new world of people and things, hearing paupers and peasants and princes and kings…

Solitude is wonderful. To be alone, out of sight, where nobody on Earth knows where you are, and to be coping and thriving in the vast, silent wildness of your adventure. Ah yes, that’s what it’s all about!
“The days are hot, hard and repetitive. I am often lonely, thirsty and tired. Yet I keep coming back for more. What is the enduring appeal of these days that have forged my adult life? They have made me who I am, both the bad and the good. These days have created most of my strongest memories and all my best anecdotes. These are the days of clarity that I turn to when I’m looking for answers and direction in my life.”
The final part of this question was whether I prefer adventures solo or with others?

Generally, I like to alternate the two. They are such different experiences. Travelling with a friend is fun (except for the times when you wish you were alone), you share the load (physically and metaphorically), and it is generally easier. You also have someone to share the experience with in the future, and the chance to laugh until you cry with friends for life.

On the other hand, travelling by yourself is more of a challenge. If you succeed, you have done that all by yourself.

The lows are lower for there is nobody to pull you out of spiralling into gloom. Every day you have to be your own taskmaster, cheerleader, confidante, and logistician. Loneliness and doubt stalk you. But you can also eat like a pig, be as selfish as you like, and lie down for a nap whenever you fancy.

Overall there is something very special, unusual, and beneficial in travelling by yourself, even if just for a short while. And so, if you dare, I’d urge to to plan a solo adventure. But if that feels too daunting right now, or if you have a dear friend you would like to share the road with, then by all means head off on your next expedition or microadventure with a friend.

Whichever way you go about it, adventure will teach you about the world and yourself in rich and surprising ways. 
Addendum: a few more clips from my books on this topic…
 

“Expeditions are normally crammed with new experiences. New places, people, sights and sounds. Your mind fills with precious new memories.

But this row is different. Its power comes more from all that is absent. (In that sense it feels more like a spell in a mediaeval monastery than an adventure – sleep deprivation, rigid routine, rubbish food). Most of our talk and daydreams out here are about what we do not have, rather than what we are experiencing now. Friends and family, long nights’ sleep, pretty girls and fresh food…”

 
“I appreciate being forced to make my own decisions and accept their consequences. I have to trust myself, encourage myself and boss myself all at the same time. The effort, the responsibility and the opportunity are all mine.
Being alone forces me to be resilient and flexible. There can be no coasting, letting somebody else make the decisions, work out the route and find somewhere safe to sleep. And there are no ties, constraints or compromises. I can do what I want, go where I want, be who I want. It is an undeniably selfish pleasure.”
“I have a tradition before falling asleep on long journeys: I choose my favourite bit of the day, and what I am looking forward to tomorrow. This habit stems from gruelling times when the magnitude of an expedition felt crippling, and the loneliness magnified it. It helps me to fall asleep feeling optimistic, for the day’s last conscious thought to be positive before I surrender my brain to its unsupervised night of processing, filing and dreaming. There is always something good about each day, even if it is only the prospect of sleep. And tomorrow, too, will hold promise if I choose to see it, whether in a cup of tea, anticipating rest at day’s end, or the glory of reaching the furthest shores of a continent.”
“Odd choice, India, if I wanted to be alone. But being alone is an important part of my journeys. Alone time. A lonely time. Alone with all of India. I feel more alone when I’m jostled by a billion strangers than somewhere wild and empty. But what is alone?
Alone might be out in the hot scrub, watched by nervous deer. The only sound inside my head is my heart thumping. Everything is motionless except for the crunch of a family of wild elephants walking slowly past. I stare, awestruck, as small as a world and as large as alone.
Or alone might be on the roof of a cheap guesthouse at sunset, having walked for hours through the crowds and chaos – like a murmuration of starlings – to reach the centre of the city and this brief moment of sanctuary. I watch the busy streets as parakeets dash madly for home, whooshing past in clusters. The call to prayer drifts lyrically across the city on the hot breeze. I feel a sense of exhilaration swelling inside me that howls,
“Woohoo! I can’t believe I am here, in India, doing this. This is special. I am lucky.”
I love this kick, the rush and buzz of joy and freedom. Just being in motion for the sheer heck of it. This is the unbeatable intensity of solitude that keeps me hooked on travelling alone.”
“The feeling of helplessness locked in the tiny cabin as huge waves smash the boat. Boredom. Brief panics at the prospect of being run down by huge ships who cannot see you.

But toughest of all is the inability to step away from your situation. Cabin fever. Quite literally. In a desert or in the Arctic you can walk away from your camp and put some physical distance between you and your companions, or between you and your tent. It’s an escape of sorts, a chance to let off steam. But rowing an ocean not only gnaws at you because of the vast emptiness you are helplessly in the middle of. It also chews up because of the tiny cell you are incarcerated in. All around you is death, water water you cannot drink nor survive in without the boat for very long. Neither Claustrophobics nor Agoraphobics need apply.

This crazy cocktail though is what made rowing the Atlantic such a special experience. The sea sickness passes, you adapt to the lack of sleep, magic pink pills ease the pain. And all that remains is perspective. Because to be isolated for so long on a flat blue disc, thousands of miles from land, with a view unchanged since the day the planet began was extraordinary. Experiencing that vastness, and the sense it gave of life’s fragility and glory, was one of the greatest privileges of my life. Sometimes you need to take a step further away to take something in completely, to focus properly. The ocean helped me to evaluate what were the important things in my life. The simplicity of the days also helped me remember what was not important in my life. Modern life has a tendency to be busy and cluttered and full without always being fulfilling. The empty ocean clarified what I should reduce, cut out or leave behind. Sometimes less is more.

And to experience that vastness (and the sense it gives of life’s fragility and glory), within arm’s reach – quite literally – of your crewmates whom you mutually depend on not only to cross the ocean but actually to stay alive, is very special. I have never laughed more in all my life than on that boat, never listened to more stories and more viewpoints, never trusted people so much nor worked so hard to earn trust and respect in return, never consciously spent such a span of time being careful not only to not annoy my fellow man, but to actively help them and make their days better at all times. This is a good way to live.

And I don’t think I need to explain how good the real world appeared when we disembarked, wobbly kneed, bearded and emaciated? The green of trees, the smell of barbecues, eye contact with beautiful women, the power of music and the crisp, sharp intoxicating coldness of that first sip of beer…”
“Mild amusements are brief distractions from the enormity of being alone on the road. No other human for miles. Nobody asking or answering questions, diverting me from myself. No roof over my head. No separation between me and the sun, the wind and the stars. One of the lasting problems with walking a solitary path is that few people can empathise. When you cannot hear the music someone is dancing to, you’re inclined to consider them insane. And going away puts you at a distance even when you return. Even those you love will always stand apart. Many think you’re mad or ask ‘what’s the use?’
Aloneness is a rare commodity these days. Even the small act of turning off your phone is inconceivable for most working people. We are never disconnected. Most of humanity lives squashed together in cities. You can be lonely in a city, but you cannot be alone. You can be lonely in a family, too, though with children you are rarely by yourself.
The fine line between loneliness and solitude depends upon your state of mind. Some days it seems glorious to follow my own path. Other days it is overwhelmingly sad to walk among streets filled with strangers. But being alone in a landscape rarely feels like emptiness or loss for me. Rather, the solitude is a physical presence that restores me like a long sleep. I can then go back to the family fray better equipped to give of myself.”
“In many ways I feel the sharp end of solitude more when I’m back from the wild. At home, I am a lonely writer. I work in a shed that measures five leisurely paces across, or four purposeful ones. I pass most of my working days in this shed, drinking tea and listening to the radio. It is where I am writing these words. I spend a lot of time by myself and am often lonely. I have no local social life. I don’t drop into the pub or have any training buddies. I don’t have friends who pop round un- announced to talk of mad ideas or lend me a book.
When I plan journeys, it is the prospect of empty landscapes that appeals most. Yet when I return from an adventure, it is the human interactions that linger in the memory. I relished the isolation of crossing Iceland but preferred how much my friend and I laughed together out there. I walked solo through India but was never far from a friendly cup of chai and a chat about cricket. Rowing the Atlantic with three companions, inching across a month-and-a-half of emptiness, forged friends for life.
Since arriving in Spain, conversations flavoured every day. Fragments of interaction, a few words, even a smile: this walk was more sociable than anything else I have done. Its success depended on my engaging with people and getting a response to my music. I needed to trust the goodwill of entire towns without knowing anyone there.”
“I spotted a cherry on the ground, fallen or flung from a vehicle. I smiled at my luck and groaned beneath my pack as I bent, picked it up and carried on walking. Free food! I was too conscious of the fragility of my economics to pass such gifts, even if it broke my rhythm and made my knees creak.
Distances stretch when you are walking. One hundred metres becomes a long way. Time draws out, even as the mind contracts to the horizon or the roadside flotsam. I polished the cherry on my trousers, popped it in my mouth and chewed. I savoured the fruit’s sweetness, its juiciness, its glorious free- ness. Then I rolled the stone around with my tongue, sucking a poor man’s gobstopper until I tired of it. Finally, I spat it into the air in front of me and volleyed it, Messi-like, against a road sign, anticipating the satisfying ‘ding’ as it struck. But I missed, not only the sign but the cherry stone, too.
How many calories did the fruit give? Maybe three? What distance would those calories convert to? How far had I walked as I sucked the stone and dreamed of scoring goals? I glanced back over my shoulder. About 50 metres. But then there were also the bonus yards, the mental ramblings spinning onwards after the cherry had gone, these dumb calculations. By the time that thread of thought faded away, I was a further 50 metres down the road, with the lorries and cars roaring by and an awkward camber that hurt my knees.”
“Remembering breaking trail in Greenland now, Tom Waits and me, a song called ‘Hold On’, and the snow crunching beneath my skis. ‘You’ve got to hold on, Al. Just hold on.’ The starkness of a world reduced to white beneath a blank blue sky. The ice ocean-flat all the way to the mountainous horizon. I held course by a compass mounted to a chest harness. My frozen eyelashes felt heavy as I blinked, and the sledge dragged behind me like an anchor. I was breathing hard but I needed to concentrate. I did not want to let anybody down.
Life on a three-man expedition can be more isolated than travelling alone. You ski in single file, taking turns each session to break trail or follow the man in front, pacing yourself to save energy but knowing you need to be fast. The muffling effect of thick clothing, skis scouring the ice and strong wind makes conversation impossible. Your buddies so close, yet you march inside your own world. Just you, your thoughts and sometimes your music. After 90 minutes you all come together for a 10-minute break. Eat. Pee. Share an idea. Go again.I was filled with a deep well of joy and an appreciation of my good fortune to be out on that isolated ice cap. The magnitude, the beauty, the skills for self-sufficiency. But a knot of guilt soured the joy.”