Where there are bears…
A morning like no other. I open my eyes and the first thing I see is a warm orange glow hitting the tops of the Rocky Mountains. No curtains, no blinds, no tent flaps. I’m waking after a night spent beneath a tarpaulin, hastily strung between two pine trees as an orange moon began to rise. Just me, my sleeping bag and a can of bear spray beneath my pillow. I am ‘on solo’. Spending 24 hours alone on one little patch of earth. And this beautiful daybreak tells me the hours of darkness are at an end.
The solo is an experience I first encountered several years ago when my explorations in nature-based work began. Dawn to dusk spent slowly where the wild Scottish Highlands meet the sea. A gentle day of drizzle, dancing light and deep, deep noticing. A day when something shifted inside.
I recollect my fears setting out that first dark morning. Not so much the solitude, but simply the stillness. How would it be to not move; not to keep on walking, exploring around the next corner? What would I do with all those hours? Could I cope, could I do it? I smile now, looking back on those anxieties. A solo day now feels more like am exciting surprise package. An excuse, a free pass, permission, encouragement — to step away from the ‘doing’ and revel in simply ‘being’ for a while.
This solo is part of a week spent with Outward Bound. Outward Bound are known the world over for their powerful — often life-changing — outdoor adventure experiences. I’ve been curious for a while about how they do what they do. About their focus on the link between ‘getting out’ and ‘looking in’. On not only having adventures in the natural world, but on what happens because and when we have adventures in the natural world. What do we learn? How do we grow? Because something happens out there. Something always happens when we’re out there, playing at the edge of our comfort zone.
This idea of testing the edge of my comfort zone is how I end up with Outward Bound Canada to find out more. I’m pretty outdoorsy, at ease in all sorts of places, with all sorts of people. But when I think about being on solo in bear country? That gives me butterflies. So, ready to stretch into the discomfort a little, I join ten strangers-soon-to-be-friends for an adventure in the big mountain backcountry.
For seven beautiful days, no watches, no phones, no bathrooms, no indoors. Just ourselves, each other, our packs and those mountains. Loaded up like little donkeys, we tramp and we camp, we walk and we talk. We scramble in rocky corries, pitch camp in magnificent valleys, and drink from clear mountain streams. The scent of the pine and the spruce fills our souls. Out there with the bears, our hearts beat a little faster sometimes. Approaching a blind corner, moments alone in the forest — our senses tuning up, tuning in to every rustle, every change in the shadows. It’s simple, beautiful, rich time. Time and space to see, hear, feel and think more.
And at the heart of this wilderness week, the solo. Twenty-four gentle hours, to go even more deeply into this peace and this quiet. To take our leave of human company and constant motion, and to see what happens. A simple, ancient, beautiful practice. For many centuries, and in many cultures, a rite of passage at a time of transition. For us, perhaps just being somewhere for so long is the challenge. Completely and utterly there. Away from the pings, whirrs and trembles of those little pocket rockets that pull our minds elsewhere, endlessly. Away from all the complexities of our human relationships. Away from all the looking down, instead of looking up.
On solo, there’s a slowness, a stillness, a sharpness. Everyday thinking and doing is suspended somehow. I feel a heightening of the senses, a deeper awareness. As if I’m gently blending into that little patch of land. I’ve read that cognitive scientists believe this type of intense ‘slowing down’ process is linked to the ability to see freshly. Just being open to a different way of sense-making for a while enables a new level of perception:
“Dissolving the boundaries between seer and seen leads not only to a deep sense of connection but also to a heightened sense of change. What first appeared as fixed or even rigid begins to appear more dynamic because we’re sensing the reality as it is being created, and we sense our part in creating it. This shift is challenging to explain in the abstract, but real and powerful when it occurs”
— from Presence, by Peter Senge et al.
And this is what fascinates me. What’s possible when we have this perspective? If we can see ourselves as part of something — something constantly in motion — instead of observing from outside, how does that affect how we feel, how we act, how we perceive the challenges we face?
So as I reflect back on those days of sunshine, grandeur and stillness I realise that this is the magic of Outward Bound. Not the tying of knots and stringing of tarps so much, but the alchemy of simplicity and space. Letting go of our ‘fancy clothes’ creates another way of being. We get out of our heads and into our bodies. Continual sensing, continual presence in a changing landscape keeps our minds and our spirits alive to all that is, and all that can be. Getting out helps us look in because there is peace, there is air, there is so much beyond ourselves to provoke, stimulate and surprise.
I realise as the midday sun blazes high in the sky on that long, lovely solo day that I’ve barely thought about the bears. And then it dawns on me. Somewhere, at some point beneath these gazing peaks, those furry, powerful paws have quietly padded into my comfort zone. And that perhaps, is the biggest surprise of all.
