A lot can be said for solo adventuring even if you aren’t technically a solo adventurer. The solitude of silence is a deafening rhythm welcomed by all those who set out to undress from society’s hammer and nails. The road is that escape.
My mom taught me that exploration has no wrong turns. For me it’s oxygen. Solo travel is essential to staying grounded, open and interested in life. It’s the vehicle to inflection and expansion. I used to do this a lot. I’d get the urge to see the sea, climb a mountain or get lost in the desert and each time I’d simply head out and hit the road.
I remember the wildness of spontaneity; the intrigue of the unknown that lie ahead with each trip. I remember feeling free and open as if I too could pen a great American novel solely from that which crossed my eye-line. But I also remember feeling lost. You set out to brave the world alone and all the while you’re wishing you had someone to share it with; the conflict of yearning perhaps leading to more exploration.
That dueling narrative within every traveler doesn’t go away when you fall in love or become a parent. For me, these feelings exist not out of yearning for what I don’t have, but instead for what I do.
The solo trip is still wild; it’s still spontaneous and it’s still life-changing. But the anchor of companionship settles the soul allowing for more meaningful adventures.