Solitude of Trees

In a back issue of The Yosemite Journal, Howard Weamer writes about the Ostrander Hut that is in the area behind Glacier Point. The Hut is ten miles out in the backcountry, at an elevation of 8500 feet, and in winter is accessible only by cross-country skiers. Weamer was its caretaker and host for many years, and writes of the wide-ranging discussions that would go on into the night between people of different backgrounds. He also mentions the need for solitude that was often expressed by his visitors: "those who welcome it are assumed to have attained something special."

This phrase stayed with me as I hiked by myself out to the hut one gorgeous autumn day. The stone hut was locked up when I arrived because it’s a winter destination, but I looked in the windows at the close sleeping quarters, then looked out at the tranquility of the forest, mountains, and the small lake that feeds Bridalveil Creek, and I felt contentment.

Does being comfortable with solitude mean that we have arrived at our goal of attaining solitude? Is there nothing that happens once we arrive? What about self-exploration?

Does solitude lead us into self-awareness, or does self-awareness lead us into solitude?

In our society it takes great effort to get away from the bustle of the city and find a place where nothing seems to be going on. And being happy when you’re alone with yourself shows an acceptance of solitude. But it’s in solitude that we sort things out, drop useless habits, set aside limiting conceptions and empty traditions, and focus on where we want to go. It’s spring cleaning for the soul.

Certainly solitude is good for restoring our sense of balance, but it can also be transforming. Attaining solitude means slowing down enough not only to notice a hillside of trees shimmering in the afternoon sunlight, but also to see the differences in each one.

“The beauty and natural silence overwhelm me here.... How do you ask people, though, to walk into the trees and listen to ... nothing?"      Joe Evans

It’s not easy to get people to be still and listen to the natural world around them. When we finally stop our activities and stand quietly beside trees and listen to the silence of the woods, are we listening with the trees as they commune with nature, or are we listening to their voices in the silence, hoping to reach the place where we can finally hear our own?

During my hike, every time the breeze picked up, the sugar pines hummed. One time my mind jumped to the song "I Talk to the Trees" that Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, in his gravely voice, sang in the western movie, Paint Your Wagon, but as I sang the lyrics myself and started touching trees, I began to laugh and lost track of my thoughts.

As caretaker of the Hut, Weamer found that he often had to answer the same questions with each group that came in, and he tried, as with the Buddhist's bell, to speak and be heard as clearly on the fiftieth ring as on the first. He discovered his impatience and, in solitude, learned to let go of his pride. I would think that he also learned how to answer better, becoming, through careful listening, more tuned to hearing the nuances of how those same questions were asked. People do not always say what they mean, and sometimes they do not even know what they want to ask.

Learning to hear our own unspoken helps us hear the unspoken of others.

Today I walk into the woods near my home, along a creek to a place of solitude. The water is low and the boulders in the river are meditating in the still water of winter. I sit with the birds and squirrels to spend time in the quiet and think about the Ostrander Hut. I let the rush of the holidays fade, and wait for a vision to guide me in the new year.