If you understand, Things are just as they are. If you do not understand, Things are just as they are.
— ZEN PROVERB TAPED TO MY CABIN DOOR
NO ENTRY FOR OCTOBER 1–9, 2001
OCTOBER 10, 2001
I’d thought I would stop daily journaling around the equinox, but I’m surprised how suddenly it happened. Bam, I just quit writing. It’s been an intense seventeen days since my last entry. The weather has been mostly glorious. Only two days of wind and heavy rain; the rest of the time was calm and clear or calm and cloudy. During the day, temperatures ranged from the low 50s to low 60s, and at night, high 30s to low 50s. Now it’s storming again.
On September 23, I packed the boat, sent a code yellow email with my proposed route and destination, and at noon headed up the east channel to try hiking with the kayak to the lake with the glacier. The sea turned choppy for a while, but the wind came from behind and was not troublesome. I used the GPS to track my location and compared its readings with the chart on which I’d noted the longitude and latitude of prominent landmarks along the route.
Traveling by small open boat through an uninhabited wilderness of mountains, islands, and unknown waterways is like nothing else I’ve ever done. At times I feel an ethereal expansion of who I am, and at other times sense myself and the boat as a tiny moving speck in the immensity. Narrow passageways, a larger boat couldn’t enter, lure me to investigate. Then, at the far end, they fling me out again into a seemingly endless shining sea.
Running with a small outboard in calm water is not like paddling a kayak or driving a powerful speedboat. It’s more exciting and free than paddling, more relaxing and intimate with the water than speed boating. Small variations in velocity can make a big difference. Trudging along at nine miles per hour is slow; lifting to a plane at thirteen is fast. Although excitement builds at the higher speed, it still allows enough psychic space to appreciate the quiet around and within. Sometimes, when conditions are right, a harmony grows between boat, motor, body, and mind. Standing motionless in the bow, just shifting my weight for balance and tweaking the steering pole now and then, I zoom at mellow speed through an endlessly expanding universe.
The trip that day was beautiful. I followed the channel north for fifteen miles, turned east for another five, back south along a narrower passage, and finally east again deeper into the foothills. During this final stretch, the banks closed in and lofted overhead into sheer cliffs. At the end of the inlet, where I expected to see a shallow river rush into the sea and where I’d hoped to camp, I found magic instead. A narrow notch split the rock and allowed the boat to ease into a hidden tidal lake.
In a trance, I motored through and saw seven condors — the most mythic of birds — wheeling overhead. An eagle, curious about this strange apparition, circled low to inspect me, and then soared back up as though wishing to be a condor, too. All around, the steep rock walls rose to form a secret amphitheater and frame the clear blue sky. For the first time in a while, I felt protected and safe.
I beached the boat near the river that poured crystal water from the upper lake into this one. Trees I hadn’t seen before showed pale spring leaves. I made my way across a soggy brush-choked flat and climbed a bluff, trying unsuccessfully to reach the upper lake. The terrain was too rugged and the rocks too slick to risk a serious fall. I did, though, reach a vantage point from where I should have seen the glacier I was seeking. But it wasn’t there. It was either still hidden from where I stood, or the map is wrong.
It was the first time I’d hiked on this wild coast, and it felt good to be high above the sea. The view back to where I’d left the boat was stunning: Plunging through a gorge in a long series of rapids and falls, the river sparkled in the late sun. Here and there, the slanting rays filtered through moss-draped trees to touch and warm the forest floor. I couldn’t leave the play of light on land without tracing its memory on film.
Unable to find a dry level place to camp, I tied the boat between one anchor in the water and another dug into the beach, then arranged my gear to make room to sit, cook, and sleep. The night was cold and clear, and at dawn I woke to sunshine in a sleeping bag damp with frost. I decided to stay, fast, and ask for a vision that would transform my life — taking the lake and surrounding cliffs as my quest circle. I spent a quiet day on the beach and in the boat. The condors shared the sky with me, and the golden red rock walls, sculpted by sliding shadows, morphed into geometric shapes and dragonlike beings.
I received no startling vision. Instead, from deep within, a profound recognition: All that I experience — joy and pain, light and dark, courage and fear, kindness and cruelty — are part of me and filled with Spirit. I need to accept and honor everything just as it is, just as I am. And reaching out, I realized there is no real separation between me and the world. All is Sacred and seamless.
That night I dreamed I was hitchhiking and picked up by an evil man with a knife. Later, I came to, lying wounded in the hospital, and asked if I’d managed to kill the man. I was told no, but that the police had. The dream seemed a warning that in accepting all of myself, including the shadow, I must be careful to not lose my sense of balance and responsibility. If I act out my own dark impulses, literal, rather than symbolic, death might result.
I rigged a tarp over the boat that second night to keep off the frost, and woke at first light to eat, pack, and leave. Back in the inlet, I headed south for a few miles and was entranced by fantastic ice fields, carved by morning light and shadow. I finally turned back and followed the inlet to its distant northern end to look for an old military refuge the navy captain had told me was there. I went ashore and searched without success among the trees and around a meadow rough with hummocks of tall grass. It seemed an odd place for a military refuge, but it was built, I was told, in the late seventies during the difficulties between Chile and Argentina. It’s not far from the border, and perhaps there ’s a pass through the mountains nearby that allows passage between the two countries.
I spent all day in the boat, and the sky and sea remained clear and calm except for an hour of breeze and light chop. A different route home took me west along the broad reach north of Owen Island, then south down the channel between Owen and Evans islands. Wide stretches of open water allowed new and expansive views of the Andes to the east and scattered islands far to the west. I soaked in the beauty of ice fields and jagged peaks, waterfalls, radical rock formations, and a multitude of tiny islets topped with gnarled bonsai-looking trees. For most of the journey, I stood at the front of the boat, and as it skimmed over glassy water, I felt myself flying through the wild unknown. To be completely alone in such spacious unspoiled beauty was glorious, and I sometimes sang with joy.
As I approached my island, I didn’t feel ready for home, so camped on the Staines beach where I often go for firewood. I built a small fire, and for the first time since I’ve been here slept under the stars. The next morning, inspired by one of the most amazing sunrises I’ve ever seen, another deep realization dawned: Not only is everything I experience part of who I am, Spirit-filled, and not to be rejected, but there is no need to go searching for something special anywhere else. Everything life has to offer is always right here wherever I am right now. There is no place more alive and sacred than this place. No time more alive and sacred than this time.
I spent the morning on the beach and came home. Cat was glad to see me. I was gone three days and had traveled eighty-seven miles. I sent a code green email to say I was back safely, and spent the next two days bringing in loads of firewood.
I felt content that I’d gone to the lake and reconciled to not taking the longer journey to the far glacier. But soon, the inner conflict I’d been struggling with all winter resurfaced: desire to see the glacier, face my fear, and bolster my self-image as an adventurer in the (imagined) eyes of others — versus fear that the motor would quit or a storm rage in and leave me stranded in that immensity of broken islands and endless tangled waterways.
The following day, September 29, I woke at first light to a mirror sea. Not a breath of wind. I hesitated briefly, communing with the water and sky — trying to divine whether a storm, still hidden from my senses, was approaching — then decided I’d go to the glacier. I lashed a temporary plywood deck over the bow of the boat and loaded it with extra fuel, the deflated kayak, rope, and an anchor. I packed more fuel, camping, fishing, and rain gear, warm clothes, first-aid kit, stove, 4 hp outboard, tools, spare parts, tarps, camera, binoculars, satphone, etc., into the boat. I took food for two weeks — just in case I got caught in a storm — and left Cat plenty, too. When everything was loaded, there was barely room for me. Finally, at noon, I sent a code yellow email and took off. Within five minutes the wind blew up. Arrrgh!
My continuing inability to predict the weather triggered raw feelings of frustration and vulnerability. I couldn’t believe it. It had been calm for a week, and now, just when I finally started for the glacier, the northwest wind was back. Since it sometimes blows lightly for just a couple of hours at midday and then calms again, I decided to push ahead against the wind, chop, and mounting swell. After six miles, I ducked into the protected inlet on Owen Island to hide and wait.
I tied up and dozed off, soothed by the soft gurgle of a brook sliding into the sea. At 5 PM I went out to check the channel, and the wind and water seemed to be settling, so I continued north. I decided that if the sky remained clear and the sea continued to calm, I’d keep going under the full moon. I again tracked my position by comparing GPS readings to the marine chart, and eventually crossed the intersecting east/west channel that separates Evans Island from the mainland to the north. In the lee of the hills I headed west with gathering hope for a gentle night and peaceful journey.
It was almost 9 PM and nearly dark, since clouds had covered the moon, when I rounded a point into the main north/south channel thirty miles from my camp. Instantly, the water was turbulent: swell, chop, and tide, all driving in different directions. I could neither continue nor turn back, and spent a dangerous half hour creeping along the rocky shore, searching in the dim light for a semiprotected nook where I could hide for the night.
By then, it was too windy to rig the plastic shelter over the boat, and I thought it would probably rain, so I didn’t roll out the sleeping bag or Therma-Rest pad. Bundled in sweaters, heavy coat, snow pants, rain gear and rubber boots, I wrapped up in a tarp and passed an uncomfortable night. The boat jerked on its tether and it was cold, but at least it didn’t rain.
The wind howled through the trees all night, and in the morning I crept out to check the channel — my route to the glacier. It runs for many miles on the same bearing as the prevailing northwest wind, and a heavy swell, as well as frothing surface chop and driving spray, made the channel impassable. I turned tail to begin the slow rough ride home. Most of the way the wind and sea came from behind, and I had to stay intently focused to keep the boat on course, as it wanted to surf the swells and broach to. Exhausted and discouraged, I made it back to camp and sent a code green email.
Two days later, the sea was mirror calm again. Tense with anxiety and frustrated that the weather is so fucking unpredictable here, I again packed the boat, sent a code yellow email, and took off. Again the wind came up almost immediately, and again I hid in the same inlet on Owen Island. At 2 PM the sea seemed to be settling, so I kept going. My remaining supply of gas wouldn’t permit another aborted attempt; this was my last chance to reach the glacier. If a storm raged in, I’d have to wait it out and then press on.
But the sea continued to calm, and by the time I reached the main channel where I’d had to turn back on my previous attempt, the water was almost glassy again. Because the boat was too heavily loaded to plane, it lumbered along at only 8 or 9 mph. I stopped in a small cove to cache one empty and one full five-gallon gas can to drop some weight and give myself more room.
But the boat still wouldn’t lift into a plane, even though, after burning five gallons of gas and caching another five, I’d lightened the load by seventy pounds. This wasn’t good since it both limited my speed and was hard on the motor. I tried slowing and accelerating, going with, against, and across the light wind riffle, swerving back and forth, but nothing worked. The motor was clearly losing power, even though it didn’t sound worse than usual. I’d reconciled myself to plowing through the water instead of skimming lightly over it, when the boat unexpectedly lifted and its speed jumped from 9 to 13 mph. What a relief.
After that, I kept going without pause since there were still four hours of light, and if I lost the plane, I might not get it back. The further I went, the more I thought I could make it to the glacier that day. It was eighty miles, but I decided to go for it since I wasn’t sure how long the calm would last. A return trip in stormy weather would be with the wind, sea, and spray, and if not pleasant, at least easier than fighting against the storm.
As the hours stretched and the motor throbbed, sound and movement carried me more and more deeply into the present. Shifting currents constantly changed the texture and color of the sea as I rounded jagged headlands from narrow straits to open water. Fifteen miles from the glacier, I left the main channel and turned east toward the mountains. Strange and beautiful shapes of sculpted ice floated in this narrower passage. They didn’t slow me, but did focus my attention. Crashing into one would have been disastrous. At one point, my small boat began to lurch for no apparent reason. I felt I was in the grip of some hidden power, and then realized that several large dolphins were playing directly underneath. Their slipstream was messing with my trajectory.
Finally, I had to pause and siphon gas from a reserve container into the outboard’s tank. Once under way again, the boat easily lifted back up, and I continued to check the marine chart against the GPS readings. Things started to not make sense. For the first time, I was uncertain of my location and began to feel lost in the complex maze of waterways and islands. In the flat evening light my perception of distance was confused, and the land looked more or less the same in all directions.
I turned south into what I thought must be the inlet leading to the glacier — even though it didn’t seem like I should have reached the opening yet, and the rolling hills on shore didn’t quite match the contour lines on the chart. It also seemed strange that the floating ice had disappeared as I approached the mother lode. Five miles later I finally realized I was headed north instead of south.
An overcast sky hiding the sun offered no hint of direction, and I was so focused on the GPS, I hadn’t paid attention to the compass. When I’d stopped to siphon gas the boat must have drifted 180 degrees. I was tired, semidazed from long hours of travel, and in a hurry to reach the glacier before dark; once the tank was full, I just fired up the motor and kept going in the direction the boat was pointed. From the middle of the channel, both shores looked similar and I didn’t notice I was going back the way I’d come.
By the time I’d returned to the east/west passage, it was too late to reach the glacier by nightfall. On the chart, I saw what looked like a good place to camp only a few miles ahead. A narrow entrance led into a circular lagoon and I tied up in a tiny cove, protected from the wind by trees and rock walls. The floor was wet from spray, so I laid a tarp to keep my bedding dry and rigged the plastic shelter overhead. Snug and cozy, I felt safe; glad to be there far from my cabin and from Cat. I heated and ate some rice and beans and went to sleep.
The wind blew up in the night, and I didn’t hurry to pack the next morning since I assumed I’d be in the protected lagoon all day and that night, too. It was almost noon when I took down the plastic and went looking for drinking water and a place to shit on the beach. I decided to at least nip out and look at the channel to see how rough it was. Surprisingly, it was calm enough to go on to the glacier. I was jarred by light chop for part of the way, but mostly the trip was fairly smooth, even though at times the motor ran rough and the boat refused to plane. Finally I could see the faint fractured line of the glacier far off to the southeast.
I wove my way for half a mile through ten thousand smallish chunks of floating ice that filled the inlet where the glacier met the sea; looking for and following interconnected gaps to edge as close as possible to the glacier’s still distant wall. When — among many other tourists — I visited the Perito Moreno Glacier in Argentina years ago, enormous slabs of ice calved off its towering wall and crashed into the lake. This wall was lower and seemed more rutted and streaked with silt. At first I felt disappointed. It was not as overwhelmingly impressive as I had expected. But then, as I have with so many other expectations, I let it go and brought myself back to what was actually happening around and within me.
I was completely alone in an immense field of shattered ice as the glacier slowly slid into the sea. Through binoculars, I followed its sloping surface until it disappeared in the distance, and I sensed the massive weight of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field, stretching for two hundred miles down the length of the Andes. This glacier, like the one high in the mountains near my camp, and the Perito Moreno over in Argentina, was part of that larger body.
I felt I was beyond even “the middle of nowhere”; a landscape of drifting ice; otherworldly, yet also intensely real. I turned off the outboard and listened to the silence. Only the occasional faint call of a seagull punctuated and expanded the vast stillness. I floated for a time in the quiet, but the glacier called me to come closer. I started the motor again and crept forward. Movement among floes caught my eye, but when I focused, there was nothing but the endless mosaic of shining ice and indigo water.
Then five dolphins surfaced to swim around the boat. Rising and diving, they created circles of slowly spreading ripples that caused the ice to undulate. I was pleased to have their company in this seemingly lifeless domain, and shut off the outboard again to share the silence with them. Once the vibration ended, they abandoned me and swam away. But it didn’t matter because now something else was calling.
Even with all the incredible beauty, something still lacked, and I felt a hollow ache, but for what I didn’t know. A black rock spire, lifting from the sea, seduced my eye but didn’t ease my heart. I lingered until I became formless, out of time, and simply there.
The sky shifted and a hazy sun showed through the clouds to fall full on the floating ice. And there it was: intense blue glowed deep within the world around me. It didn’t shine from far away, but from intimate pockets in the surrounding floes. I remembered then what I’d forgotten.
During these past months, beneath all the mental chatter about needing to face my fear, the mystic light of glacial ice had been calling to my heart. That luminous blue, created by massive weight through time, reflected an ancient quality within me so numinous I couldn’t describe it even to myself.
In that wordless moment, I realized that the mysterious call of blue ice was also a call from my soul, and I felt a shift as the fragmented parts of my being found peace in profound integration. Even worry-mind was welcomed and honored for bringing me there safely — and hopefully taking me home again.
Oddly, perhaps, images of scuba diving deep and alone drifted into my thoughts. When far beneath the surface, no matter how entranced by the underwater world, a dispassionate part of my mind always remains focused on survival. It monitors depth, time, and air supply. I often argue and plead for just a little longer in that shadowed otherworld, but finally I always give in and head back to the surface.
The thought that the motor might fail and leave me stranded in that frigid seascape, or that the temperature might drop and freeze the boat and floating ice into a solid mass, was troubling, so I put the thought away and continued to soak in the beauty. But the thought kept creeping back. I could also hear the faint hiss of air escaping from the pontoon that had started to leak more rapidly. It was time to go.
I headed back to where I’d camped the night before, to have an early start the next day. Out in the east/west passage, I again saw the sculpted icebergs, which I now realized came from some other glacier further to the east. I wanted to follow their trail, but my fuel supply was limited. Their source would remain unknown to me.
Dolphins leaping nearby woke me at first light the next day, and I packed to leave. Again the boat didn’t want to plane but finally got up, and I kept going without stop all the way back to where I’d cached the gas. The return was as smooth as the trip out had been. Beautiful rock formations and secret inlets beckoned to be explored, but the unpredictability of the weather kept me moving. In the main channel, I saw two boats far away across the water.
I found the gas cache without problem, having marked the location as a waypoint on the GPS. What a handy gizmo. It would be extremely easy to get lost among all the islands and waterways here. As long as I keep close track of where I am on the chart and in relation to camp, I’m ok, but if I were to lose track of my location, it would be very difficult to figure it out without the GPS. The wild seascape seems endless, and many of the rolling hills are similar in appearance. It blows my mind to think of the original explorers who came here with no maps or aerial photos. Did they sail and row down every channel to see where it might or might not lead? How did they not become totally confused?
The sea and sky were holding steady, so I stayed in the shipping route along the west side of Evans Island rather than cut east into more protected water. By the time I came level with Vancouver Island across the channel to the west, a breeze had sprung up and was ruffling the sea into a light chop, but I decided to risk it and complete all the trips I’ve wanted to make while here. I originally considered Vancouver Island as a possible place to live for the year, since much of the island’s total area comprises a large enclosed circular lagoon with many islets and passageways. But when German told me fishermen regularly go there to harvest urchins, I shied away.
I crossed the four-mile-wide channel and passed through the narrow opening into the lagoon. It was protected and very peaceful, but I doubt I would have been content there. There is no mountain view and the fishing is probably poor due to the shallow water. Powerful tidal currents swirl and streak through the narrow passageways, which would make kayaking exciting on extreme tides. The landscape here continues to fascinate me; so many nooks and crannies to putter in. I wandered for a while, then crossed the channel toward home. Cat, as he usually does, rushed to the water’s edge to welcome me back.
The trip to the glacier was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Not the actual trip, which — because wind and sea remained calm — was smooth and easy, but facing the fear and uncertainty beforehand. One of the challenges of solitude is that potential or imagined danger can loom to fill the mind. Without other people to help maintain perspective, fear that would normally be manageable can overwhelm. I would challenge the fear, prepare everything for the trip, and at the last minute the wind would come raging in. Or it would look like it was going to blow so I wouldn’t leave, and the sea would remain flat calm all day.
Over and over, I imagined myself caught in a ferocious storm huddled for days on a wind-whipped, spray-soaked rock or as a small vulnerable speck lost and alone — drifting helplessly with a dead motor among an endless labyrinth of mountains, islands, and waterways. I’d see myself trying to limp home with the 4 hp outboard that I don’t trust or, worse, needing to call for rescue.
Besides facing my fear and uncertainty, perhaps what made the trip so intense was the complex and prolonged preparation. Then, the long hypnotic hours in the boat concentrated my mind as the droning outboard carried me further and further from the security of camp and from the frequent aggravations of Cat. The unreliability of the motor triggered hypervigilance as I constantly listened for increased knocking or other problems.
I can see the trip to the glacier as a metaphor for my year here. Something called me to come, and I’ve had glimpses of that numinous Something. I’ve sensed it, but cannot put it into words. My time at the glacier was magical and profound; then the experience, like all experiences, becomes part of the ongoing rhythm of living. I sense, though, that it has left an indelible trace in me. I wonder what mark this year will leave.
I suspect those first two weeks of spring were my last window of opportunity for travel, and I’m very glad I made all the trips I’d planned. Their total distance was more than 350 miles. I feel a sense of completion, as though I’ve accomplished something important and can now relax and allow myself to simply experience whatever arises with no further destinations in mind. I can focus on simply being here without the distraction of feeling bummed that the wind is blowing every day and that I didn’t make the trips when I had the chance. I have enough firewood to last until I leave, almost no gas for the outboard, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want German to bring spare parts for the motor. Unless I have a serious problem, I don’t plan to send or receive any emails — except the monthly check-ins — for the next four months.
OCTOBER 11, 2001
The Orange Bill Butter-Belly Diving Ducks continue to fascinate and mystify me. I now think the close pair purposefully instigated the fight I saw three weeks ago. Although this male lost on that occasion, perhaps there was another fight while I was away; the territorial line has shifted to increase the close pair’s territory. I think the territorial squabble is about nesting site rather than feeding area. The old boundary cut across the islet where the close pair is nesting, and now it’s completely within the pair’s territory.
I have an intuitive sense that it’s not necessarily the stronger male who wins, but rather the male of the pair that wants the territory most. In any case, there is much less territorial defense activity now than in past weeks. I wonder what the males will do about the boundary line once the females are brooding. Maybe they’ll say, “Ah screw it, let’s just relax and try to get along.”
When the close pair went ashore on the islet today, the male stayed on the rocks near the water while she waddled up toward the brush, stopping a couple of times to preen — as though checking to be certain she wouldn’t give away her nest location to a lurking predator. Then she disappeared into the brush and didn’t reappear until three and a half hours later. I like how the male keeps watch when she goes to build a nest or lay an egg. Once they’d left the area I went to search for their nest in the dense brush, but couldn’t find it. It must be incredibly well hidden. I didn’t want to tromp around too much for fear of scaring her away from the area.
Generally, territorial defense is interpreted as competition between individuals, pairs, or groups. But if instead of focusing on each individual pair, I look at the system of organization as a whole and consider the fact that they seldom actually fight, I can see their territoriality as a cooperative strategy to organize resource use most efficiently. If there were no defined territories, a pair might waste time feeding in an area another pair had recently harvested.
OCTOBER 12, 2001
I used fingernail polish to number thirty limpets today to find out if they move over time. In a couple of days, assuming the polish sticks, I’ll check their positions again. If they haven’t moved, I’ll check each week for a month. If they have moved, I may start to track their positions daily.
I spent most of day watching the ducks. She ’s feeding much more than he — either to balance the energy drain of laying eggs, or to build up reserves for when she ’ll brood them. While they were sitting on a rock near the point, I went to see how close they’d let me approach. When I was twenty-five feet away, they acted nervous, so I stopped and sat. A little later she waddled to within ten feet to drink from a pool. Then he came over, hunkered down beside her, and tucked his feet into his belly feathers — to keep them warm, I suppose. They’d close their eyes for a second or two, open them briefly, and then close them again. Their eyes close from the bottom up, which is pretty cool.
It was nice to share the sun, wind, rock, and water sounds with them. I felt a sense of unity: all of us manifestations of Life together; life studying life. From that perspective there was no observer and no observed — just observation. I wonder how much of that basic experience we were actually sharing. Do the ducks and I have identical awareness? Not the content of awareness, but the simple space of being aware of the world?
Philosophers of science argue that all facts are theory-bound. Without theory for context, we cannot actually see facts. Facts are not just lying around waiting to be discovered; in some sense, theory creates them. I try at times to give up my theories and the search for facts, and just keep company with the ducks — a sort of Zen biology.
After sitting with me for a while, they swam into the basin and disappeared behind the islet — and never came back out, even though I watched closely in all directions. Then I happened to glance toward the point, and there they were! How do they do that? It’s magic how they disappear and then reappear somewhere else.
NO ENTRY FOR OCTOBER 13, 2001
OCTOBER 14, 2001
I didn’t see the ducks until afternoon when I finally spotted the close male alone. It feels as though he’s just a visitor in the female ’s territory now. The white goose of the black-and-white pair has been standing sentinel on the far island. Did I have their sexes mixed up? Is the black-and-white one the female — now brooding — and this, the male, guarding the nest? I like to witness these creatures reproducing and keeping the cycle going, but I feel sort of left out.
I checked the positions of the limpets this afternoon. Whoa! Did they ever move, and some have completely disappeared. Starting tomorrow I’ll check them daily. I’ve come up with an efficient method to locate their positions on the rock. I made a dial from a plastic bucket lid by painting numbers from 1 to 12 around the rim and dividing these segments into ten smaller units, each 3 angular degrees wide. I weighted the dial with a stone, attached a fifteen-foot string to the center, and marked the string at three-, six- and twelve-inch intervals. To measure the positions of the limpets, I set the dial on the rock each day in the exact same spot with the same north-south orientation, stretch the string to the top point of a shell, and note its distance from the center of the dial and the angle at which the string crosses the dial’s rim. This yields a vector I can later transform to an XY coordinate system using the dial as the origin.
It’s rainy and cold; a day of painful emotion. In the past I might have attributed this feeling to loneliness, but now I wonder if it’s spiritual longing. Missing other people feels similar to the experience of being cut off from Spirit — from my own deep being. Several times I determined to simply stay with the feeling, but over and over I ate something, drank coffee, or engaged in some other escape activity.
Then tonight at dusk, I slipped into a joyful inner space of light and visions. I think it was a sentence in Sex, Ecology, Spirituality that triggered the shift. Wilber was talking about exploring this huge mysterious world of consciousness, and bam — of course. This journey is an exploration, not something I must do just right so I’ll be ok or so I can teach others.
In that openness I heard the waterfalls from Staines and experienced them as inside my body. With another shift of perspective and consciousness I was no longer enclosed in my body, but expanded freely into space all around. Both body and waterfalls were aspects of consciousness.
Then Cat started to cry and the sound hammered me. As I crashed into that tight painful space I thought, “Not again! Why can’t I stay where it’s light and joyful?” But when I’m physically traveling and exploring I don’t expect everything to be easy and pleasant. I expect it to be tough, dirty, painful, and frightening at times. That’s what traveling, as opposed to tourism, is. So why do I expect these inner explorations to be different?
Cat doesn’t live in a world that’s very attractive to me. Or rather, when I’m caught in what I imagine his experience to be, I’m not happy to be there. The biosphere is, in some basic way (I think), oriented toward flight or fight. Cat’s yowling plunges me into that dark space and tightens me up. The tension may (quite likely) have nothing to do with Cat at all, but may be my own resistance to feeling certain things, like vulnerability and fear of death.
It’s as though I have an inner switch. Either I’m flowing easily in the de-centered space of Big Mind, or, wham, locked down into small tight mind. When I slip from small mind — where I cling to my isolated ego-self and the security of the known — and radically shift into a larger more relaxed space, I recognize that this is where I’ve always wanted to be. I don’t understand why, after all these years of work, I still resist the shift so fiercely.
Sometimes I’m still caught in magical thinking when I want something. Talking aloud, I ask the wind to stop blowing or tell the rain to wait a while, or I thank them for behaving in a way that pleases me. On one level I know I’m playing and that this is simply a way to express my feelings, and yet . . . not entirely. I really am trying to persuade the elements to consider my desires. Rationally, I know this is silly, but emotionally I still sort of believe it might work. In some sense that magical space feels dark and threatening, as though the wind is a willful entity with the power to attack, and so must be propitiated.
OCTOBER 15, 2001
This morning there were sensuous van Gogh clouds over the mountains that looked more like a painting than real sky. I received an email from Patti saying she has purchased a ticket to visit Chile in February. I’ll be glad to see her. I sent a message to Alejandra saying I don’t want German to bring me outboard parts and other supplies.
There wasn’t much soot today when I cleaned the chimney; hopefully, it will hold up until next March. I put some of the soil I dug up when building the outhouse into containers to start lettuce and radish seeds. Planting a garden will be a lot of work. I’ll need to mix sand with the soil to allow for drainage, and I may use clear plastic to keep off the heavy rain. Just taking care of survival pragmatics today.
I suspect the female duck is brooding her eggs. I didn’t see her at all yesterday or today. There are, though, lots of other birds. It’s a sort of avian gestalt on the rocks when I open myself to the collective swirl of all the birds, instead of focusing so tightly on the butter-bellies.
From one perspective, the birds can be seen as a simple movement of energy — like wind or rain. I was thinking that way before reading Wilber again. Now I wonder if that conception reduces them to the physical movement of matter, and attributes no efficacy to biological motivation. The birds can also be seen as internally motivated in the normal, every bird for herself way, but if I shift perspective, they are all expressions of Life. Then there is no real separation between them, and the terms competition and cooperation lose meaning.
OCTOBER 16, 2001
I woke early this morning to the sun coming over the mountains into a clear sky. I went out to the rock to have tea, watch the day come on, and meditate. New moon, my day for fasting, and I’m hungry. I want to at least put honey in my herbal tea, but so far I’ve resisted.
In a couple of weeks, I may review the limpet data. I’m curious about three things: Do the same two limpets stay close together over time? Is there much variance in the amount of movement between individuals (are some wanderers and some couch potatoes)? Is there a pattern in their collective movements? Of course there is some sort of pattern, the question is: what kind? Will it be something my eye and mind can detect as repeating behavior, or will it be the kind of free-form irregular pattern found in jade?
Personality always has an impact on scientific findings. What the researcher is looking for largely determines how he or she designs a study and, consequently, what can be discovered. If I were looking for average limpet movement, I might ignore the few individuals that move long distances, or average them in — and so ignore their significance. But personally, I’m interested in the oddballs — the wanderers.
As part of the study, I might lift some limpets off the rock and re-place them as a cluster in a flat area I’ll clear of mussels. I question the ethics of uprooting and likely killing hundreds of mussels to satisfy my curiosity. If there wasn’t red tide I’d have little reluctance to kill that many to eat, even though I don’t need them to survive. What’s the difference between killing to satisfy intellectual desire and killing to satisfy physical desire?
Today I watched myself making measurements under the slanting afternoon sun — a lone man far from others of his kind, kneeling on low tide rocks trying to discover something about the lives of limpets. In some sense, it’s not so much about the limpets as about exploring ideas; playing with the notion of integrating science and aesthetics by looking at limpet movement as a dance rather than a feeding activity.
There are times when I feel a deep love for Cat and am very glad for his company. But often, too, I would prefer not to have him here, especially when he ’s crying. And he cries a lot, or at least it seems to me that he does. A wonderfully peaceful morning or evening is just shattered by his moaning cry. I’ve tried everything to get him to stop: reasoning with him, yelling at him, swatting him, and squirting him with water. But nothing really works.
He is truly creative in his vocalizations; what variety! But most of the sounds he makes are unpleasant to my ear: there is a sort of mindless complaining sound like the whining of a five-year-old child; a demanding yowl; or his hunting cry. The other day he made a sound so truly disgusting that it stopped me in my tracks. It was so nasty I had to laugh. I mean, if you can imagine the sound rotting meat might make analogous to its stench, this sound would be it.
I gave him some limpets today from a part of the study I’ve discontinued because it wasn’t working out. Now they won’t clutter up the rock. Science at its finest: Don’t like the way an experiment is going? Test subjects not behaving as you want them to? No problem. Cancel the study and feed the subjects to the cat!
OCTOBER 17, 2001
I wonder if I’ll ever come back here. Of all the places I’ve seen, where would I build next time? It would be nice to be somewhere more protected, but then there might not be good fishing or such a spectacular view of the mountains. All things considered, this is an incredible spot.
I just imagined being back with people and feeling not as good as others. Then I remembered that we ’re all embodiments of Life and immediately felt calm again. This decentering from such strong narcissistic self-focus seems to prevent judging myself and others so harshly. The shift requires discipline; it’s not enough to depend on flashes of insight, but I also sense it’s called up by something higher or deeper and not controlled by my ego.
OCTOBER 18, 2001
Well, that woke me up. I just tended the stove, and after adding wood I noticed a small piece of orange tinfoil on the floor. It seemed strange and I wondered where it could have come from. I picked it up. Yeow! It turned out to be a live ember that must have popped out the draft hole. I now have a juicy blister.
Since I’ve only occasionally gone to sit outside in really foul weather, doing science is taking me into the elements, where I’d expected to spend more time than I have. I caught another far glimpse of myself today measuring the movement of snails on a slippery rock in a rainstorm in the middle of nowhere. Human beings are truly an odd species.
NO ENTRY FOR OCTOBER 19, 2001
OCTOBER 20, 2001
The pair of rusty-breast geese is very skittish. I hope to get a photo, but will be lucky if I do. Another new bird has arrived. It’s lean and angular, and flies the same way — like it will fall out of the sky if it pauses for an instant. It looks like a seagull wired on speed, except it’s graceful and lovely, which hasn’t been my experience with the meth heads I’ve met.
Things are falling apart. The folding chair broke today and I repaired it with wood, wire, and duct tape. I’ve been repairing the chimney inside the cabin since midwinter by wiring sheet metal over the rust holes, but the outside pipe was almost completely rotten. Yesterday, as I sat mulling this and that — one thing about being alone out here, there’s plenty of time to think — it occurred to me that the seven cans of powdered milk I brought might be about the same diameter as the chimney pipe. I measured them and they were exactly the same. After the milk went into plastic bags, I cut out the tops and bottoms of the cans and replaced the rotten sections of chimney, using duct tape to hold it all together. I even made a 90 degree elbow from two of the cans. I feel quite clever. What would I do without duct tape? I suspect that if Napoleon had had duct tape, we’d all be speaking French now.
I found myself disagreeing with Wilber again today. He claims it’s an egotistic activity to find Spirit in nature through the feelings that arise when in the wilderness. He argues that we cannot bring Spirit in from nature, but that Spirit moves through us out into nature. Sounds like horseshit to me. Spirit is everywhere, and being in nature can help us perceive it. And we can perceive it in nature only if we experience an inner transformation.
Wilber also criticizes the strong no-self doctrine of Theravada Buddhism and claims that most schools of Buddhist thought don’t hold that view. They teach, instead, that there is a self, but that it’s relative rather than absolute. I’ve wondered about the no-self doctrine for a while. At times, I’ve had the experience that there really is no one at home in here, but I’ve also sensed that the self may actually come into existence through mental or physical activity, and dissolve only in the stillness of meditation.
I’ve been meditating much more these past days and want to keep it up. The winds continue to blow, which is good because it keeps me off the water and focuses my attention inward. There are moments of joy, peace, and love, and also moments of longing, lack, and hollowness. I still avoid the difficult moments, although I repeatedly make resolutions to stay with them. I might settle into a basic sustenance diet for a while and give up using food treats as pleasure and escape.
OCTOBER 21, 2001
Grey rainy morning. I stayed in the cabin most of the day hunkered down by a fire, and the Sunday blanket of depression and torpor settled over me. I still have no understanding of its source or place in my psyche. Is it a valuable balance for something, or a useless distraction to get rid of with antidepressant drugs?
How can I accept myself just as I am, when part of me is judgmental? It seems like a vicious circle: another catch-22. I can’t accept the flaw of my perfectionism because it causes me to reject myself for not being perfect! But the circle is broken when I do accept myself just as I am — imperfect in my perfectionism.
When I leave here, I must be sure to remember all these ups and downs — rather than create an idealized myth of this journey, to which I compare the rest of my life.
Today is Sunday, my day of rest. All week, now and then, I look forward to Sunday.
I exercise just enough to ease my shoulder ache, do not meditate, reread a novel rather than philosophy or spiritual teaching, build a fire, and feel no obligation to sit outside in the rain and wind.
Sunday is, perhaps, my hardest day. Unstructured and undisciplined, deep aches and longings wash over me and lie as heavy as gloom on my heart.
On Sundays, even more than on other days, I escape into coffee, popcorn, and chocolate. I long to be elsewhere, but nowhere I can think of.
On Sundays, I see how far and for how long these feelings have driven me: to wander; to drugs; to each new woman’s body; to here. No, not the feelings but avoidance of them.
On Sundays, I look at these feelings and question, unsuccessfully,
their source and niche in this fabric I call myself. On Sundays — after all these months — I feel no closer to peace, freedom, or understanding.
On Sundays, I look out my window and the Orange Bill Butter-Belly Diving Duck is just a bird: eating, shitting, breeding, dying, over and over again.
On Sundays, I look down the remaining years of my life and see fleeting joys but no lasting peace. On Sundays, I look forward to Monday and wish I didn’t.
NO ENTRY FOR OCTOBER 22, 2001
OCTOBER 23, 2001
Another windy, sometimes rainy day. Measuring the limpets was a nasty proposition; I was almost blown off the rock and into the sea. Most of the limpets are pretty sedentary, but a few have taken off for parts unknown. I wonder how far they go and why. Hunger? Sex drive? Wanderlust?
Scientific studies begin in various ways for various reasons. Sometimes the impetus is intellectual curiosity, sometimes emotional drive, sometimes desire for status or monetary gain, often simple happenstance. My original plan for this year was to go into the wilderness alone, do animal behavior research, and include in the study reflections on my own cognitive, emotional, and spiritual behavior as the researcher. But along the way, my orientation shifted from a biological study of some other organism to direct observation of myself in solitude. I became not only the researcher, but also the subject of the research — a fairly circular state of affairs.
Once here, I saw the limpets, started to wonder how much they move, and eventually decided to track their movements quantitatively over time as a sort of hobby. All this was just a mind tickle for several months, until one sunny afternoon I felt motivated to mark a number of limpets and actually begin a study.
The qualitative Orange Bill Butter-Belly Diving Duck study I seem to be doing began differently; I just drifted into it. Day after day, there they were in my watery front yard, and as I casually watched, I became intrigued by what I saw. Little by little I started to pay closer attention.
In addition to measuring the limpets and watching the ducks, I started to build a sling chair today. But the wretched materials wouldn’t cooperate and I immediately got angry. My current practice is to focus on the anger and on letting it go, instead of acting it out. No matter what I’m doing, when I become aware of getting angry and frustrated, I stop, relax, and let it go, before I continue. This is the most important behavioral thing I can do here, and since I have no need to accomplish anything more, I certainly have the time. I’m seeing more clearly how anger and self-centeredness feed each other and are grounded in frustrated desire and thwarted will.
I finally finished Sex, Ecology, Spirituality. It seems to me I’ve been reading that book forever, and by now I’m thoroughly tired of Wilber’s style. I don’t know if he ’s just so brilliant that he ’s right all the time, outrageously arrogant, or both. He ’s the deepest and broadest thinker I’ve seriously studied. His four quadrant model is a complex and extremely inclusive cognitive map; a useful tool in helping me organize my own thinking — as long as I approach it metaphorically, rather than reify the quadrants and levels as actually existing in the world. Reading Wilber has been very valuable to me and I owe him a great deal.
OCTOBER 24, 2001
There was definitely weather today. Strong wind from the northwest and then from the southwest; rain, hail, and even some snow. Tonight it’s calm for the first — or maybe second — time since my return from the glacier. It probably won’t last until morning, but if it does I might go fishing. The dolphins came to play in the basin for a while this evening.
I started to dig a garden plot near the point; or rather, I tried to turn over a shovel of soil. But there ’s an impossibly dense tangle of roots under the grass. No way am I doing a garden down there. It would be far too much work for one season. I may build a couple of wooden boxes and fill them with dirt from the outhouse hole. They won’t produce much, but at least something to supplement the lentil sprouts I’m eating.
This afternoon, one of the small grey land birds came to rob food from Cat’s dish. She ’s very aware of Cat. If I’m sitting on the porch alone, she goes straight to the dish. If Cat is with me, she turns and leaves. Cat often stalks these birds, and I’ve given up yelling at him to quit. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t caught one yet.
NO ENTRY FOR OCTOBER 25–28, 2001
OCTOBER 29, 2001
I don’t feel much like writing. But it’s nearing the end of the month and I expect to stop journaling for a while, so I want to put down some thoughts I’ve jotted in the notebook these past days.
I intend to give up reading for the next three months to open more space for inner exploration. I want to stay with my own moment-by-moment experience. I’ve been heading toward this year alone for a long time, and if I don’t live it fully I’ll regret it. Perhaps I’ll read a page of A Path with a Heart, Chuang Tsu, or the I Ching now and then to catalyze inward shifts.
I’m also going to give up coffee, cocoa, chocolate, sugar, and bread for at least a month. I’ve become more and more aware of how I use food and caffeine to escape physical and emotional pain and to change from feeling a sort of hollow depression to feeling pretty good. Then a short time later I slump or doze off, and head for some stimulus again. Round and round. At some point I’d like to fast and stay outside for three or four days and nights. Sleeping in the rain seems extreme to me, even though I’d wear rain gear and try to stay as dry as possible. I guess I’ve become soft with this cushy lifestyle.
I’m still questioning the place of language in my experience. Is the space of consciousness the result of language? Clearly, all thought is language-based. Pure sensation (e.g., seeing moving water) does not seem to be; but is the awareness of myself seeing moving water?
According to Wilber, some mystic philosophers claim that Spirit “hid from itself in its eternal play” by becoming matter, and in doing so lost awareness of itself. From this perspective, physical and cultural evolution is the process of Spirit growing back toward itself. The middle stages of the process are language-based; to reach the higher stages we must pass through these middle levels. But the direct experience of awareness seems to be beyond language. I’ll continue to chew on this stuff.
I wonder if pure Spirit is not self-aware, and in attempting to know itself manifested as the material universe and began its journey of self-discovery. Perhaps pure Spirit can know itself only through being mirrored by itself incarnate. If so, then Spirit calls to us in order to know itself; not just from compassion. That would make us more than mere epiphenomena. At times I sense a Presence here that I can experience but not put into words or understand rationally.
I feel commonality with the male butter-belly in my body, and definitely sense that he ’s more than a feather-draped stimulus/response machine. I can’t know for sure, but why would I want to reduce this wonderful being to an unconscious automaton? Why would I want to do that to the universe I live in? Why would I want to do that to myself?
As I’ve gotten more serious about possibly writing up my study of the butter-belly ducks, I’ve switched from simply being with them in curiosity, love, and wonder to wanting to take something from them: information, public approval, etc. This shift from sharing to taking is a form of greed. I believe much of science is grounded in taking, but truly creative scientists give themselves to the world instead of taking something from it to fulfill their own desires and expectations.
What can I give to the world? I’m receiving so much. Is bringing my awareness to this place a gift? Does the loving-kindness meditation I send daily have an effect? Is it necessary to give if there is no boundary between us?
Nature is going nowhere. Evolution is a conceptual notion to give us a sense of progress, purpose, and meaning. Things do change via evolution, but very, very slowly compared to the endless repetition of the daily/yearly same old, same old. Life is drudgery when looked at from the outside. That’s why we’ve invented so many ways to escape. Even personal growth (I think at this moment) goes round and round, up and down. The only way life — as it is in nature — becomes meaningful is to step out of conceptual abstractions and into the flow of living.
This cloudy night
the wind has finally died
and the sea whispers softly.
Her sensuous murmur
drifts and echoes
through the infinite empty space
of our mutual existence.
I can no longer speak
of solitude without admitting
the presence of Something
here with me.
Something nonmaterial and nonpersonal.
Often
I’m deaf and blind,
and my heart is closed.
But again and again
an inner softening
yields love, peace, beauty,
and deep, deep gratitude.
Then
all there is to get
I’ve already got...
if I simply open my mind and heart
to what is.
There is no place to go
other than here.
No time to be
other than now.
No way out
and no way further in
to Life.
OCTOBER 30, 2001
Just a day.
OCTOBER 31, 2001
Last day in October, and if things go according to plan — no reason why they should, they rarely have before — this will be the last entry for a while. It’s been a busy day. I woke fairly early to quiet. No wind in the trees or waves against rock. I looked out to the first completely calm day in three weeks. Excellent conditions to measure elevations on the limpet rock.
Two days ago on a very low tide, I stretched a level line from the highest point on the rock out over the study area. Then using a fishing weight tied to a string as a plumb bob, I went along the line, measuring down and marking the sloping rock with nail polish every four vertical inches. Today, as the tide came in and the water level reached each mark, I worked quickly around the dial — set in its usual position — and recorded the distance from dial to water at each 30 degrees of angular displacement. From the measurements, I’ll be able to re-create the contour lines of the rock on paper, one line for each four vertical inches. I feel quite clever for having thought of using the sea as a level. Even a laser beam would not have been as accurate or efficient.
I went fishing to Staines in the afternoon. I paused to honor the gift of each fish and to acknowledge the life I was taking. As I killed them, I looked into their eyes to watch the life fade. Tonight will be the first time in a month I’ve eaten fish.
The sea lions are still on their rock. I wonder how much fish eighteen sea lions eat. They have no sense of sustainability. First a single one moves in, and before you know it a whole herd has invaded. They use up our common resources, stay up all night making a racket, property values go all to hell. Perhaps this calls for yet another letter of complaint.
It rained on and off all day, which is good because the rain barrel was low from washing clothes a few days ago. Wash day was semiclear with a good wind, and it occurred to me to string a line at the point and hang everything there. Even the heavy shirts and pants dried within three hours. Not bad; it took me only eight months to figure out.
Yesterday, I read an essay in Ecopsychology by Steven Harper, a wilderness guide who leads people on trips to reconnect with nature and with their own inner being. He claims they do no impact camping; but it’s impossible to do any physical activity with no impact. It’s like the famous oxymoron sustainable development, which is also impossible. But sustainable impact — not damaging the world faster than it can replenish itself — is possible and is context dependent.
My current impact is, I believe, sustainable — even though I’m fishing, cutting firewood, using a gas-powered chain saw and outboard, and allowing a small amount of detergent to enter the sea. But I’m the only person here or likely to be here for a long time to come, so the damage will have an opportunity to heal. If I behaved this way in a heavily used area, it would be unsustainable and irresponsible.
Harper writes that crossing over into the wilderness is like culture shock. It puts us into a stranger context than we are used to, and shows us a broader reality. His job as leader is to “trust and support the process, get out of the way, and let the actual wilderness teach the lessons.” This mirrors my thoughts and feelings about letting solitude have its way with me.
I also read an essay by Robert Greenway, who has led groups into the wilderness for thirty years. He claims it is common when returning to society to feel depression and lose the wonderful sense of vibrancy. He suggests that to prevent losing the positive effect, people can meditate and get together with the others who were in their wilderness group. I think, though, that trying to hold onto the wilderness experience once we return to the city is actually part of the problem.
Clinging to past experiences, instead of letting our lives unfold naturally moment by moment, is just what we usually do — and tend to stop doing in the wilderness. To maintain the sense of aliveness, we need to be deeply open to our actual lives in the present, wherever we are — not cling to our memory of the wilderness experience.
When I finish writing this entry, I’ll turn all my books around so the titles face the wall as a symbolic way of putting them out of reach; I have nowhere to hide them out of sight. I intend to not use the computer for some time. If I really want to record something, I’ll jot short notes longhand.
There isn’t much physical work to do now, which is good because I want to create space for new discoveries — to open myself more fully to what the wilderness has to teach me. It’s going to be hard losing all these avoidance mechanisms at once, but it’s time. It feels like I’m stepping into the unknown, and I’m frightened by the thought of the long days and nights ahead without activity to fill the hours.