Preaching Works Best on the Converted and the Choir: On Weighing the Dangers and Opportunities of Solo Travel for Art
Author and artist Rob Mullen shares his experiences and debates about traveling solo in the wilderness for the sake of his art.
Among the 20-plus wilderness art expeditions in my book Boreal Wilderland, all or parts of four were, for varying reasons, solo. Among wilderness canoeists, solo travel can be controversial. Foremost, it is generally more dangerous, and many, if not most, responsible authorities properly recommend against it:
- Alone, even minor mishaps can snowball into tragedy.
- You have only the brainpower and experience of one person to solve problems.
- On a long, solo trip, you never know how your psyche will respond to stress.
- Bears will be less intimidated by you.
- Your loved ones will probably be worried sick.
On the other hand:
- Sometimes your choice is going alone or not going. If the trip is well within your skill level and the reason for it is compelling, the risk/benefit assessment can seem favorable.
- Alone, there is no “groupthink”; you will hopefully be more cautious, and there is no peer pressure—however subtle—to, for example, run a rapid you shouldn’t.
- Alone, schedule and campsite choices are all yours (and sites are easier to find).
- Prolonged solitude can clear the path to interesting head spaces that are normally hard to reach.
- Bears—and all other wildlife—will be less intimidated by you. You can travel quietly and usually see more; a plus for a wildlife artist.
Westport, Connecticut (where I slept when not working in New York)
By 1991, it was undeniable that my freelance advertising art career in NYC was being eaten alive by computers. My future ex-wife wanted me to go to law school (I even took the LSAT to prove her wrong—which only made it worse), but I was planning my return to nature art.
I did several wildlife art shows, including my first national-level one and, in mid-October 1992, headed for the Colorado Rockies for a painting seminar. Since our second daughter had been born the year before, I had skipped my annual northern Canadian canoe trip, so I planned a several-day paddle through Algonquin Provincial Park on my way west. It would be my first solo junket, but it was a relatively short route, and all flat water.
Ontario, Canada
It was cool and raining as I parked at the crowded boat access to Canoe Lake. That did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm, but it was potential hypothermia weather. Happily, concerned about being alone and with the colder weather and water of autumn, I took the extra precaution of bringing a wetsuit to wear under my clothes and rain gear.
As soon as I was paddling north, I was surprised to encounter a loose flotilla of canoes returning south. A few passed close enough to say hello, and I learned that they were all racing home to catch the Toronto Blue Jays in the World Series. Several expressed good-natured shock that I was headed the wrong way and would miss the game, but all were friendly—until one canoe beelined for me.
As soon as they were close, they stopped paddling, and after a perfunctory greeting, launched into an earnest lecture on the dangers of solo paddling. I sincerely agreed with their supporting arguments but not their conclusion, so when I didn’t turn around, their sermonizing escalated to stern, then indignant, and finally arrived at denouncing me as irresponsible and the sort of paddler who could give canoeing a bad name. Somewhere along their journey from well-meaning to insulting, they got my back up.
I could have been an adult, thanked them for their concern, and carried on. Instead, I took a parting shot, countering that, in the event of capsizing in rough conditions far from shore (their less-than-optimal scenario to illustrate my folly), they were in just one boat and would be in deathly peril too; I at least had a wetsuit. I kept going and had a fine trip. The Blue Jays won.
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Of course, I could well have had an accident, and being alone could have meant the end of me. Then again, that was true driving up to Ontario from Connecticut and on to Colorado. Familiarity and necessity versus novelty and discretion all affect our perception and assessment of risk. However, I digress.
I am intimately aware of many of the advantages and drawbacks, lurking dangers and rarified joys of solo travel, so the question of whether it is advisable presents a conundrum. Even more on point, I know well the possible futility of trying to convince someone set on going alone that it is not a good idea. On balance, I have never gone alone for its own sake (though I slightly favor solo canoes). However, a few times over the years, while working on Boreal Wilderland, circumstances have led me to go alone. My wife, Bonnie, supported those decisions, though she was concerned. She said so in our discussions and showed me by working hard to make the expeditions safer, improving communications, and double-checking every preparation. However, she never pushed me to back off. And that made the difference.
There were no resentments about the issue cluttering my internal processing, and, ironically, an introspective state brought on by the solitude of my last solo trip catalyzed my realization that solo travel was, or at least had become, wrong for me, leading to my decision to swear it off. It is a promise that I have kept, despite that last solo trip being one of the most incredible experiences of my life.
At a planning conference at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History in 2011, we hatched the idea of circumnavigating the western Brooks Range via the Noatak River on the north flank and the Kobuk River on the south, linking the two by crossing the mountains with canoes near their sources around Mt. Igikpak. The multi-part expeditions would encompass the full transition between Arctic and alpine tundra to boreal forest at the northwestern-most extent of trees in North America. In 2012, we reconned Angiaak Pass near Mt. Igikpak and then ran the Noatak River to the Chukchi Sea and Kotzebue. Through the winter and spring of 2013, my intrepid mountain crew suffered significant attrition. Finally, with all set and ready, the crew was down to me, myself, and I.
On August 1, 2013, I confidently knelt alone by my folding canoe and kit at the top of Angiaak Pass. I had a big grin on my face as I shot the self-portrait, because I was sure it was all downhill from there.
Heavy clouds were rolling up the pass from the south, so I pitched a snug camp just below the top. Lying comfortably under my tarp shelter, I gazed out over the mountains wreathed in clouds as the rain pattered down. I was profoundly content. I was a bit behind schedule but felt fit and thought the hard part was behind me. And I had already done four paintings. My thoughts went to Bonnie …
… and it all came together: my contentment and her worry. My blinkered focus on the boreal forest project fell away, and the selfishness of it all hit with powerful clarity. Then and there, I wrote in my journal that I loved her, missed her, and would make no more solo journeys. Done.
The raging glacial torrents, lonely black bear youngsters (they spent two nights with me), Alder Hell, food shortages, and the charging grizzly all came later.
