Adventuring solo
I am afraid of being alone. Not in my bedroom, but out there, in the bush, in foreign countries, in the wild.
I’ve met a handful of very inspiring solo travellers/adventurers. One of them was my beautiful South African friend Cath. I met her in New Zealand and listened to her relay stories of places she’d solo hiked and empty huts she’d stayed in or campsites along the Te Araroa trail. I saw how comfortable she was in her own skin, with the little she had in her backpack and the home she’d made in her van. “Tomorrow I’m going to hike Sharktooth and camp somewhere near there.” I was jealous of how free she was to follow her feet. In comparison, my feet felt like they had set solid in concrete, afraid to explore without a buddy.
The privilege of going solo felt like it was only for those born brave. Those who come out of the womb knowing how to use a compass and courage to fight off cougars. They’re the people who go on to make films about how they almost died but didn’t because they decided to chop their arm off. Going solo didn’t feel like the pleasures extended to the average person, like little old me.
In 2023, after being infected by the world of New Zealand van lifers, I felt drawn to move back to Australia and experience something I’d never thought I’d do: travel for 8 months in a van solo. As excited as I was to live my new dream, the reality was I struggled to sleep in a locked house by myself, let alone the roadside in a city or a deserted rec site, and I didn’t have many solo outdoor experiences under my belt. Fear can be illogical and in hindsight laughable, but never in the moment. I remember the first night I pulled into a paid showground site. The place was filled with family tents and campers overlooking the creek. I quietly opened the sliding door of my van and set up the pull-out table to cook my first meal. I felt so exposed and vulnerable; there was nothing I wanted more than to hide inside where nobody could see me. I was so afraid that people would judge me or see my solo state as an opportunity to take advantage of me or peep through my window during the night. Silly, I know, but at the time these thoughts were very loud and very real in my mind.
I rolled down the road from Queensland to Victoria, zig-zagging between sandy beaches and mountain landscapes. Like numbing my feet in an icy stream, I became desensitised daily to the solo living. I’d embrace the stares of grown men and women watching me eat my breakfast. I hiked alone down trails, sometimes rarely running into another person. I slept in city streets, and car parks and visited many reliably open McDonald’s public bathrooms. I talked to people, who in the past, I would have been afraid to and found kindness. I found kindness from people who, shortly after meeting, I realised I quickly had to avoid. The more I hiked, talked, public showered, parked up, slept and cooked on display, I became like a cicada shedding my shell of fear. Not that there was no longer anything to be afraid of, but rather I learnt what was worth fearing, and to let go of the fears that weren’t.
Even though progress has been made from that girl wading through the mud of her fears. I find that without continuing to exercise my mind and muscles with solo missions, the body resets itself. It says, “I can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve done it before, but I’ve forgotten how to be.” And that’s ok. I don’t think we should be expected to go from zero to hero all the time or sustain singing a high-pitched note without ever taking a breath. Bravery is something that is breathed one breath at a time, one obstacle at a time, one conversation, one deserted dirt road, one sleepless night, one scary interaction, one dark midnight grassy pee after midnight grassy pee.
Now as I ponder what solo adventures might lie ahead of me, I feel afraid. I hate holding the stigma that I’m a fearful person because it’s not true, I’m ever-evolving, growing, shedding cicada shells anew. Although I feel afraid about exploring alone, I know as I step out and adventure in wisdom, the new and the scary will wear away over time, like the rubber wheels on dirt roads, or the scratched hub caps from city curbs.