Awakened by the Wild: How Nature's Solitude Reveals Our True Strength

Lessons from the Wilderness When No One's Watching

I remember the stillness first—the kind that presses against your skin and makes you acutely aware of your heartbeat. I was camped alone near the edge of a glacial lake in the Canadian Rockies, miles from the nearest road; my only company was a crackling fire and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. That night, I felt both awe and vulnerability: the beauty of the wilderness magnified by the knowledge that no one else was there. No one was coming. It was just me, the mountains, and the moonlight.

During that night, I heard something foraging about outside. It was late October. I immediately thought, "Are the bears still out, or are they hibernating?" Then, I went through a litany of tasks I hoped I’d taken care of. Did I close the cooler to keep it tamperproof? Did I leave out some food from dinner? Were the dishes, pots, and pans still outside? I wondered how strong the door was. It didn’t have a lock—that's another story for another day—and was only kept closed with a bungee cord. I stayed in that state of awareness, eyes closed, waiting and waiting for that next rumble or pounding on the door.

Society tends to equate solitude with loneliness, even weakness. We’re conditioned to seek connection, noise, and distraction. But nature tells a different story. Time alone in the wild doesn’t shrink you—it expands you. It strips away everything nonessential until what’s left is raw, resilient, and real. Solitude in nature isn’t an absence. It’s a profound presence.

Why Solitude in Nature Strengthens the Soul

When you're out there alone, you have no choice but to rely on yourself. You set up camp. You navigate the trail. You build the fire and keep it alive. In that self-reliance, something shifts. You begin to trust your instincts. You make peace with the silence. And over time, the chatter in your head softens enough for deeper thoughts to rise—ones that are often drowned out by the noise of everyday life.

I was in the North Cascade Mountains. It was late December, and there was plenty of snow already all about. I was driving around on the old logging roads. I don’t know if I was purposely trying to get lost or not. But soon, I forgot how many right turns I had taken, and as I turned the rig around to head back out, I realized that I was lost. "No worries," I thought—just bring out the phone and check the map. No service. Okay—not good. Now what?

I realized that I didn’t really have anything to worry about, though. Like a turtle, my home is wherever I happen to park the rig. There was plenty of emergency food in the pantry, for instance, just like this. I spent two days and nights bouncing along those potholed lumber roads. There was no panic—just a quiet recalibration. That’s when I learned self-reliance isn’t loud. It’s calm. It’s deliberate.

Nature has a way of confronting you with discomfort. Boredom. Unease. Fear of the unknown. But rather than numbing or avoiding those feelings, solitude invites you to sit with them. And that’s where the resilience is born—not in running from discomfort, but in learning to breathe through it.

My journey with cancer has forced me to confront mortality in ways I never expected. Interestingly, I've found that this confrontation mirrors what I've learned in the wilderness—that strength isn't found in avoiding difficult truths, but in sitting with them. Whether facing medical uncertainties or the vastness of an alpine landscape, I've discovered that our capacity for resilience expands precisely when we stop running from discomfort and instead learn to breathe through it.

The Science Behind Nature and Solitude

I didn’t need a study to tell me what I already felt—that after a few days alone in the wild, my thoughts were sharper, my sleep deeper, and my inner critic quieter. I’m one of those guys where being alone is not a problem—it’s quite the opposite. I thrive in the quiet. I may start talking to my dog Bailey, but she needs the attention.

Research backs up what wilderness wanderers have known for generations: time in nature, especially alone, reduces cortisol (the stress hormone) and increases feelings of well-being. A 2020 study from the University of Michigan found that spending even 20 minutes in nature significantly lowers stress levels. But it’s more than just relaxation—it’s rewiring.

Solitude in nature has enhanced problem-solving skills, boosted creativity, and improved emotional regulation. Without the distractions of devices, conversations, and deadlines, the brain shifts into a default mode that allows for reflection and insight. It’s in that space that new ideas emerge—and often, a stronger version of ourselves.

Practical Tips for Seeking Strength Through Solitude

You don’t have to disappear into the Arctic for a month to experience the benefits of solitude in nature. A solo hike, a weekend camping trip, or even an afternoon in a quiet park can be enough to begin the process. Here are a few ways to start:

Prepare Intentionally 

If you're heading into the backcountry, know your route, check the weather, bring the right gear. Confidence builds from preparation.

There was a time when I was in Cody, WY, and there was a cave that I wanted to explore—Spirit Mountain Cave, part of the Spirit Mountain Caverns system. It was once a commercial cave attraction but is now managed by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM). It’s currently not open to the general public without special permission due to safety and conservation efforts. I went through the process of obtaining a permit from the BLM. The process of getting into the cave was not simple.

Nonetheless, I made it into the cave and was in awe as I walked about and ventured further into the system. I had gone maybe five minutes in when my headlamp went out. Not to worry—I felt for the backup headlamp I had brought. I continued, and after another five minutes, that headlamp went dead as well. Do you know what it's like to be in utter pitch black with only the dripping of water and the sound of wings fluttering? Not a good sound. I was waiting for a bat to fly into my long hair, looking for a place to nest. I had to get on all fours to feel my way back out. When I saw that very faint light toward what I hoped was the cave opening, I never felt more relief. Even when you think you have the basics covered—check again.

Practice Presence

Leave your phone on airplane mode. Observe. Listen. Write. Let nature be your mirror.

You never know what you might see. It was early morning; the sun had yet to rise. I had already started a fire and was on my first cup of coffee. I sat there next to this beautiful lake, just waiting for the sun to show itself and bring the day into focus. As it rose, I saw waves being created by something in the water. At first, I thought it was a duck paddling about looking for food. I grabbed my camera and soon realized it was a beaver, not a duck. It was crossing the lake, which was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. The only thing visible was the widening V-wave behind the beaver as it paddled along. I must have made a noise because the beaver suddenly slapped its tail on the surface of the lake and disappeared.

When a beaver slaps its tail on the water, it creates a sharp, loud "smack" or "whack" sound, similar to the crack of a paddle hitting the water hard—but deeper and more resonant. It's sudden, startling, and echoes across the water, especially in stillness. It’s not a splash—it’s a flat, percussive slap with a slight reverberation. The sound is designed to warn other beavers of danger and to startle potential predators or intruders—including humans. If you're nearby when it happens, it can make you jump—it’s that abrupt and loud.

Embrace Discomfort

That first moment of unease is just that—a moment. On the other side is a deeper sense of peace than you’ll ever find in a crowd.

Discomfort has a voice—it starts as a whisper of doubt, then grows louder the quieter the world around you becomes. I’ve learned to sit with it. To let it speak. And without fail, if I stay long enough, it fades. In its place, a peace arrives—not the loud, performative kind we chase in busy lives—but the still, bone-deep kind that only comes when you’ve made it through your own storm.

Journal Your Experience

Even a few lines a day can help capture insights and track your growth.

I started journaling as a form of therapy. Living with anxiety and depression, I needed a way to make sense of the internal noise, and writing gave me a place to put it. In the wilderness, especially during those long, damp, or bone-cold hours when it’s too miserable to be outside, journaling became something more—it became a lifeline. A quiet companion. A ritual that kept me steady.

Out in the wild, time stretches. Hours feel longer; thoughts grow louder. Writing, even just a sentence or two, became my way of grounding the experience—capturing what couldn’t be photographed: fear, wonder, doubt, peace. It was where I could be honest without judgment.

Now, years later, I find myself returning to those journals not just as a reflection of my emotional growth but as the foundation of my books. Who knew that scribbles written by headlamps in a soggy tent would one day shape entire chapters? The act of writing ended up serving me twice—once in the moment and again in the remembering. And maybe that’s the greatest gift of journaling: it’s not just for who you are now, but for who you’re becoming.

The Power of Returning to Ourselves

Every time I return from a solo experience in nature, I come back changed—not because something new was added to me, but because something unnecessary was taken away: fear, doubt, and the need to perform or please. In the quiet, I remembered who I was without the noise.

We live in a world that constantly asks us to prove ourselves to others. But the wild reminds us that strength comes from within. You just have to give it space to surface.

So, take the time. Seek out solitude. Let nature strip you bare, then build you back stronger. In the stillness of the forest, the mountains, the open sky—you just might meet the version of yourself you've been waiting for.

Thom