10 Days of Pure Solitude

Gravel crunched beneath my tires as my car slowed to a crawl. I could just glimpse a structure through the midnight. I think that looks right. I killed the engine, stepped outside, and was immediately blasted by a deafening silence. I breathed deep and smiled. Go time.

I'd arrived at my new home: a one-room speck on the vast foothills of eastern Idaho. Closest town Driggs, population 871. Phone off, auto-responder on. Let the 10 day plunge into solitude begin. 

Back up for a second.

Why did I spend 10 days alone in the most desolate part of the US?

Since joining Forte Academy as Course Manager in January, my life had been a blur of communication. I love my work because I love to meet others. By October, I’d met thousands of students. I’d held hundreds of 1:1 calls. My total emails sent was north of five digits. After a year of nonstop interaction, my work life felt enriched, but my inner landscape felt vacant. Constant pings left me dreaming of uninterrupted silence.

And so, one Saturday afternoon, I set the Airbnb search filter to "western US" and scanned the land for remote stays. A few days browsing flyover states led me to two small cabins, spaced five hours apart. Perfect. I booked the spots, grabbed flights, and started a countdown.

For 10 days I would be intensely alone. No emails. No calls. Just time and space to visit my interiority and see what I found. It would be an experiment in selfhood. A chance to look myself square in the eyes and see who looked back. How would I respond to total isolation and no electronic stimuli?

Finally the day arrived.

My first cabin lay in the foothills of the Grand Teton mountains. After my midnight arrival, I spent two glorious days in total quiet. Day 3 was a five-hour drive through gorgeous Yellowstone, which led to my next stop: 22 empty acres in northern Wyoming. I stayed for seven more days before heading home.

In total, I spent over 250 hours completely alone. What happened? 

• I lived screen-free. I read. I wrote. I listened to the silence to see what it said. I cooked and cleaned. I journaled. I walked for miles. I ate steak and kettle corn and drank chilled lemonade. I pondered the past and sized up the present. I tried (and failed) and tried again to lose myself in the infinite Now. I listened to the grandest symphonies ever written. I watched the sun cross the sky. I kicked an anthill and saw it rebuild. I lay flat on my back as day turned to night. I hoped for future. I was grateful. 

• I felt still. Each day was filled with my own observations instead of the internet's. The absence of swipes and clicks brought a subtle sense of calm. I breathed and thought deeply. Meals were slow and deliberate. I walked in the afternoon sunlight, reflecting on my life, aiming to be present. At night I read, taking occasional breaks to stare at the stars and ponder my existence. My busy mind still buzzed, but slower than before, as if it had been placed on ice.

• I chose books that made me feel deeply. I brought a suitcase full of books along. Novels, memoirs, essays, nonfiction, even a book of poetry. I let my feelings in the moment guide me, an experiment to see what I would chose. I mostly went for novels and essays, plus two books about presence. My winner was Letters to a Young Poet, perhaps the most powerful words I've read so far. Other favorites include Remains of the Day, My Antonia, and Walking. You'll find my full list of books here.
  
  

• I found riveting music. There's a quote I like: "Attention without object is prayer in its supreme form." To make these words real, I limited myself to classical music, attending to music without the object of lyrics. Did you know Beethoven's Eroica symphony is considered the greatest music ever created by man? Neither did I, until my time away. I listened to it six times. I also discovered this seven-minute gem from Mozart's Oboe Concerto in C Major. I swear the meaning of life is hiding in those notes.
  
  

• I severed bad habit loops. I’ve read enough Cal Newport to know the importance of unbroken focus. But knowing and doing are a gulf apart. I had slipped back into compulsive phone checking this year. The usual vices: Twitter, CNN, ESPN, Twitter again…if each day is a blank canvas of possibility, my creations were stained with black splatters of wasted time.
  

  This trip was a stint in screen rehab. I did not surf the web for 10 days. I used my computer exclusively to write. And the all-addictive iPhone? I barely touched that slab of glass. Other than a few hellos to loved ones, I hid it on top of the kitchen cabinets. Out of reach, out of sight, out of my life.
  

  Since returning home, I'm happy to report my bad habit loops haven't returned. I haven't checked CNN or ESPN once since my trip. My Twitter feed is empty, with all my follows muted for now. I'm relishing the break from inputs. I'm focused on creating, publishing, and spending more time alone.

• I reconnected with the magnificence of mornings. I watched the sun rise from a porch rocker each morning. I can't think of the last sunrise I'd seen; it had been years. It's a breathtaking moment of majesty. I did my clearest self-reflection while the sun woke up. As the dark sky slid into yellow, pink, and orange, I realized I had traded mornings for evenings in past years. Recent late nights were due to work or web browsing. Before that it was bars and drinking, late into the night, waking up bleary-eyed and cloudy the next day. All this time, the clarifying stillness of mornings had been hiding, invisible to me, waiting patiently to be rediscovered.

After months tossed in choppy digital seas, my seclusion in Idaho and Wyoming felt like finding solid land. For ten days I caught my breath and found my bearings. The dizziness began to fade. I took stock of who I am, what I've done, and where I'm going next.

I believe that nearly everyone alive today thirsts for time alone, free of inputs. We only get the smallest sips of solitude amidst our hectic, phone-filled days. My trip was like guzzling the good stuff straight from the pitcher.

Maybe you can’t carve out gallons of alone time right now. That's fine. But don't forget to pour yourself a glass.