Island

Yesterday at 9:00 I boarded the Islander, along with 50 or so others, and headed out for Santa Cruz Island, part of Channel Islands National Park.

Occasionally the sun would pierce the clouds, and constantly, off our port side, Anacapa Island, neighbor to Santa Cruz and only dimly visible in the picture, rode the horizon.

After disembarking and receiving a briefing from a Park volunteer, I set off on my walk.

The thousands of years of Chumash culture on the island left little mark on the land. But in the 19th century Anglos began using Santa Cruz for raising cattle and sheep, and it will take years—maybe centuries—for the island to recover from our exploitation. Thank God for the National Conservancy and National Park Service who share ownership of Santa Cruz and are, together, committed to restoring and preserving its natural beauty.

To a walker like me, the island seems immense and its hills and mountains stunning. I have to wonder what the vegetation was like, pre-sheep.

And how beautiful its coastline of pebbled beaches and rugged cliffs as in the picture I took near Potato Harbor!

Eventually my wanderings brought me back to the inlet that shelters Scorpion Landing. There in the distance waits Anacapa. Maybe someday I can visit that island.

At 3:30, the Islander began the loading process, taking on camping gear, scuba diving equipment, and the string of kayaks in the picture.

As we left the island, the sun and clouds again painted a picture over the island. My iPhone camera does it only partial justice.

Walking, like any really worthwhile activity, stimulates insights into the self. I learned something about my self on Santa Cruz with which I'm not altogether comfortable:

I'm a loner. In a way, I'm as isolated as an island.

As I was talking to the Park volunteer, making certain I knew where I was headed, a young East Indian, Gary, joined us, asking questions about the same destination—Smugglers Cove. Eventually the question that I was dreading: "Do you mind if I walk along with you?"

Yes, I really did mind. Why? After all, the guide sheet said, "Never hike alone!" and here was a ready made buddy for the day. He seemed like a nice enough guy. I could get acquainted with someone new. Why did I mind?

Unable to come up with a good answer, I said, "Sure." It took me a while to get set to leave—stash my sweatshirt, extend my hiking poles, that kind of thing—so Gary said he'd get started.

It wasn't long 'til I caught up with him, even though he turned out to be a stronger, faster walker than me. We visited a bit, but I was increasingly uncomfortable with the necessity of engaging in conversation when I enjoyed the silence, of matching my rate of walking with Gary's.

So at the first junction, about a mile along the way, I consulted my map and told Gary that I was having second thoughts about Smugglers Cove and had decided to do the Scorpion Canyon loop instead. We went our different ways. I felt like a prisoner who had won release.

As I thought about it, I had to face the fact that I'm not a very sociable guy. I like being an island. I almost never feel lonely—even when compelled to be by myself for extended periods of time. On the contrary, I can be positively uncomfortable in groups—what do I say? how do I relate? what do I do? Some of my most moving, most enlightening, most enjoyable experiences have occurred when I was by myself—my solo bike rides to Ruidoso, New York, and Big Bend, to mention a few.

I find this realization uncomfortable. It seems somehow non-human, embarrassing—a fault. There on the trail, I worried, for instance, about the future of my new-found hiking hobby. I had thought I'd like to share this joy with Amy, with Ted—a veteran hiker. But now I wondered. How would that work out?

Clearly, doing things with Amy has always enhanced the activity. Many have been the times over the past 2 months of basic solitude when I've thought, This would be so much more fun with Amy. But what about hiking? What if our rates of walking don't match? What if I want to stop and look and she doesn't, or more likely, she wants to stop and look, and I want to march on? Maybe we can devise some solutions to make certain both get from the experience what each most enjoys. What solutions? What arrangements? What agreements? I know Ted has often hiked with others, so maybe he will have some insights that will help me——

Again walking becomes an analogy for living. If we are essentially individuals—islands—yet we have this capacity, this drive, even this necessity for relationships, how do we manage? One would think that by the age of 67 I would have figured it out. Maybe 2 divorces testify that I haven't.

Well, I've got some years left to work on the problem. I hope Amy and friends like Ted can put up with me while I do.