Thursday, May 9 – 8:30 p.m.
I feel like a dumb girl and am completely OK with it.
I’ll explain.
Sometime back in March, I decided I would rent out my house for at least the month of May. I had already rented it out for March, and given my not-super-great salary, it was such a relief to have someone else cover my mortgage. I knew I’d be gone for most of May, so it seemed like a no-brainer. I started looking for renters.
I was contacted by a couple looking to rent in the Springs while they searched for a home. They were looking for a place for at least 6 months — that, I couldn’t do. I turned them down for a girl looking to rent from the end of May to August.
Many others contacted me. Contacted me with dates ranging from just the month of May to a full year. I tend to be a first-come, first-served type of person, so I didn’t heed them.
The girl ghosted me, while the couple re-approached me about renting for 3 months. Could I do three months? Maybe. I knew I’d be gone a lot in June and July, too — the whole goal of summer is to be out camping, climbing, running, and hiking every weekend. I could work anywhere in my home state with my remote job. And that’s fine by me — Colorado summer is dreamy.
Still, renting my place meant committing to “van life.” Could I live out of my car for 3 months? Sure I could. I lived out of Ryan’s car for 2 months last year. I just needed to outfit the Subie — make it sleep-able, get a good cooler and two-burner stove. Otherwise, I had all the ingredients.
I knew there were going to be snags. That was the biggest takeaway Ryan and I took from road tripping last year; you have to adapt. Don’t get too wedded to any one plan.
Well the first snag began day 1, this last Sunday. We were planning to head to San Luis to work and climb for two weeks. But the weather was looking crappy. We didn’t really want to drive to kind of nowhere just to not climb. We watched the weather all week, and it tormented us. One day it would look clear, 12 hours later, rainy again. We brainstormed other places to climb, but no matter where we looked, bad weather was imminent.
Now it was Thursday and I was restless. Restless, and increasingly feeling like I needed to separate myself from everything comfortable.
In my eyes, I’ve lost a lot of the independent spunk I used to have. Once a person who relished being alone, went to concerts and brew tours and events in solitude, felt confident taking solo trips, I’m now paralyzed more often than not by being alone. I love a single night to myself — to cook, do admin, play drums, watch Better Call Saul — but that’s my max. As soon as I encroach upon 2 days of solitude, I’m unreasonably lonely. I know I have so many friends to spend time with, family to call, but I start feeling trapped by my four walls. Suddenly, most activities done alone sound unappealing — and more so, sad. They didn’t use to be sad to me.
I don’t know if these feelings are necessarily bad. I think on the one hand, learning to enjoy and crave companionship has been a healthy change for me. As a college senior, I truly wondered if I could ever have a partner, since I was so fiercely independent. I had my own agenda all the time. A partner would mean sacrificing what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. I wouldn’t have all the control over my life. And that scared me. Simultaneously, it scared me that if I didn’t change, I’d end up so rigid and set in my ways that I’d be forever isolated. My biggest fear is and always will be ending up alone.
Perhaps by renting out my house, I thought that I could force myself out of the loneliness that the four walls created and find peace in the solitude of nature. I have plenty of people willing to lend a hand, take me in if I need. But I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to find that independent spark that I had lost. I wanted to get lost so I could get found.
The weather was making it difficult, though. The warmest place I could think to go was Cañon City. And though it would be warm enough to camp, it was supposed to rain throughout the weekend too. I imagined myself, camping for the first time alone, just 40 minutes from friends with warm houses, feeling like an idiot. Cooking on my two burner in the rain, wondering what I had gotten myself into and why.
You have to adapt. I texted my family friend John and asked if anyone in his family was using their cabin in Fairplay. It was all mine, he replied happily.
The weather app said sunny and 34 degrees in Fairplay at 5 p.m. and onward. Worked for me. I just knew I needed to get away and start working on this solitude thing. This would be good for me. It was far enough away from the comfortable people and places that I would be forced to face my loneliness demon.
As I drove out of the Springs through Manitou and Woodland Park, the rain increased, fluctuating with snow. It would clear by Fairplay, I told myself. But it was unrelenting. By the time I reached Hartsel, the chance of sun in Fairplay sounded dubious at best, and sure enough, the snow kept coming down.
I turned onto the county road to the cabin and could see the snow was accumulating and there had been no plow through the roads yet. I soldiered on. I just had to make it to the cabin. Then all would be well.
As the road turned from pavement to dirt, my Subaru Impreza, Ogie, charged on fearlessly. I never have felt so simultaneously foolhardy and self-assured. Even though I knew I was driving myself to a potential snow-in, I felt right in the decision. Usually not much of a snow driver, I was confident driving the tricky switchback several miles in, as well as maintaining momentum up the last big hill. I arrived, the driveway too deep with snow to even turn into, feeling pleased with myself and so foolish.
Now I’m sitting in the cabin, a roaring wood burning stove behind me, with no idea when the road will be plowed. But nothing is wrong. I’m warm. I have food for days. I have water. And best of all, I have forced solitude.
I may be a young dumb girl who took the less-than-obvious choice multiple times in the last month, but I haven’t felt that stubbornly determined as I was behind the wheel, accelerating up a snow-covered hill, in a long, long time.
I am hoping that’s the first step in finding the lost piece of myself.
[The plow arrived at 3 p.m. the next day. If it weren’t for the bad service forcing me out to watch the Nuggets play-off game, I still would’ve stayed put.]
Saturday, June 29 – 12:30 p.m.
Well, it’s been over 50 days since I wrote that snowy tale, in a somewhat manic fashion. Do I feel independent again? Absolutely not. But do I feel anxiously attached to anything or anyone? Also no. I’ve grown, but I’m not there yet.
So much has happened between then and now. I traveled from the cabin to Buena Vista, Salida, and Durango. After catching up with college friends, I finally made it to San Luis with Ryan to camp and climb. A few days with my Colorado parents were followed by another magical, soul-healing bouldering trip to Joe’s Valley with dear friends. I reconnected with my awesome co-worker, Jason, for biking, a bougie dinner, and a donut quest in Denver, then flew to the East Coast for 5 days to see my cousin married on Cape Cod. Back in Colorado, I couch surfed on and off, even staying in my home for 5 days to cat sit for my renters (how weird is that?), with weekend trips to Boulder and Salida for summer festivals. I returned to the Springs to dog sit and run my first race in nearly a year, placing second woman and fifth overall. This last week, I circled back to Durango and spent a couple of days in Telluride, craving more college friend time. In the midst of all of this, my renters closed on a house and offered to move out at the end of June. To which I said: yes. I haven’t minded this vagabond lifestyle, but it feels like it’s time to simplify.
The one deterrent from moving back home was honestly a financial one. My contract job with a mapping company just ended on Friday, and with it, income for the foreseeable future. I was hopeful the company would hire me on full-time, after nearly 8 months of dedication and “going above and beyond,” but it wasn’t in the budget. Now I am left simultaneously more sure of myself than ever, having forced myself into independence again, as well as completely directionless. The truth is: I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know when I will. And yes, having some folks cover my mortgage for another month would be financially advantageous, but a secure landing pad seems far more advantageous for me to figure out what the hell is next.
Honestly, I could see myself living nomadically somewhat endlessly. Countless times over the past couple of months, friends and family would reach out asking, “How is your trip going?” or saying, “Hope you’re enjoying your adventure!” In my eyes, though, the last two months were neither a trip nor an adventure. They were just life. I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary for me, most days; I still got up, went for runs, worked 8 hours, climbed, went to social gatherings, etc. It’s funny to me that so many folks can’t imagine life being normal if I’m not living in a house full-time. Sure, it made life more challenging, but not fundamentally different. The new challenge will be returning to the four walls and seeing if I can make peace with them.
Now that I am back home, I can’t help but reflect on the past two months. Though they were full of moments of self-doubt, fear, frustration, loss, and unquantifiable tears, what stands out to me are all the moments of immeasurable joy. My friends supporting me when I sent my first V8 outdoors; laughing until my stomach hurt with my old roommate about something I no longer even remember; watching my cousin walking down the aisle, and later, my older brother tearing it up on the dancefloor; crossing the finish line to discover only one woman ahead of me. But I think the icing on the cake was Friday, hiking with my college friend, Nate.
We were on the most classic hike in Telluride, Bear Creek. The previous day, he and I had hiked up to Hope Lake with our friend Devan, through rain and hail. It fiercely poured on us an hour after the hike, too (we ran to the hot springs in pelting rain anyway). Well, all that accumulated rain had made the creek flow stronger than ever. At the top of Bear Creek is a massive waterfall, and Nate, having done this hike several times, said he’d never seen it look so powerful. Standing near the base of it, Nate started putting on his raincoat. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I think we’re about to get soaked.”
“Sure, but I don’t have to hike closer to the falls.”
Nate shrugged, as if to say, your loss. Looking up at the falls, I felt foolish for even considering staying down below. I put on my jacket.
With each step higher, you could feel more spray on your skin. I saw Nate at the top, arms open wide as the falls bore relentlessly down the cliff. The wind and water blew our hoods and hats back, and we looked at each other and laughed, the water drenching us. What struck me was how the laughs were ones of pure delight. The kind of delight you hear when a child discovers something for the first time, like bubbles or butterflies. I felt so purely whole in that moment and couldn’t help but feel like I was forming a core memory.
I don’t know what the future for me holds, but I have to imagine that more moments of awe and delight will get me somewhere. I have to believe that continually getting lost will help me get found.
