My relationship with Bob and with his exploration of solitude is intricate and dedicated. I first met him in 1987 at a spiritual community in New Hampshire. We were both attending a birthday party for the Dharma teacher Deneal Amos, whose teachings have played an important part in our individual lives. That day we shared only a passing conversation, but I recognized Bob as a man who was earnest in establishing his spiritual practice, and I had the solid sense that he and I would be working together sometime in the future.
That future rolled around twelve years later when through casual circumstance I became reconnected with Bob. As I was introduced to his academic work, I was captivated by the issues of solitude and by his proposed research project. In January 1999 he told me he was planning to begin his fieldwork the following September, but the project had a longer gestation period than expected, and September came and went.
By summer 2000, Bob had decided to do his fieldwork in Chile, but I was beginning to wonder if he would ever get out of Vancouver. I still could not see much forward movement in his logistic preparations. Then, in October, he exploded with ideas and frenetic activity, all directed toward gathering supplies and preparing for his voyage to Chile. I was exhausted just watching him tend to all the details, and then suddenly he was gone.
That winter, I continued to order items and send them down to Chile with the hope they would arrive before he left the mainland. I could feel Bob’s exhaustion and anxiety. Finally, the last phone call came on February 4, 2001. I would not hear Bob’s voice again for more than a year.
I was confident of the email protocol we had devised. As it turned out, in addition to his monthly check-in message, Bob also sent a report each solstice and equinox that described his life in solitude. These were forwarded to many people who were following his adventure. Sometimes people asked if I knew anything more than what was in the reports; I did not. It was difficult at times to keep the spirit of solitude. Like so many good things, we often want just a little bit more.
Bob was always with me. I spent time each day before meditation holding him in my mind and heart and picturing vibrant and healthy energy for him. Each day (except for a time when I was in the hospital) I made an origami figure and inscribed onto it one of the aspects of Infinite Heart. I held the magical belief that if I made a figure every day, Bob would be safe and sound for another twenty-four hours. Since I made different figures of animals and plants and pinned each to the wall after that day had passed, I ended up with a lovely, colorful collage.
When the 9/11 terrorist attacks occurred, I discussed with the network of people who followed Bob whether to tell him about those events, but I decided against it. Looking back, I’m glad I did not.
In July Bob sent me a list of parts he needed to repair his outboard motors, and there followed several back and forth messages with questions and lists of things to buy. It was a difficult task for me, as I had little knowledge of the parts he needed. I also sensed I was on a wild-goose chase. I doubted he actually needed half the things he asked for, and I suspected they would never reach him anyway. My intuition turned out to be correct.
In our emails we were careful not to say anything personal that would break his emotional solitude. We discussed only business, even though I missed his companionship and guidance. Only once did I send a personal note along with the monthly response to his check-in email. He replied in kind, and it helped take the sting out of missing him so acutely. It was the only time we engaged in personal communication during the year.
As medical adviser, I received a few inquiries from Bob, but I kept my answers impersonal. When he wrote that his tooth was abscessed, I told him precisely what to do, gave him a pep talk, and tried to lead him to believe that everyone has pulled a tooth or two. My precise answers to his questions belied my own worry and personal concern for his health and comfort.
Bob and I exchanged promises before he left Vancouver: he not to die, and I that if he ever went to code-red I would go down immediately to participate in a rescue or a burial. I knew Bob to be a man of his word, and so I never really worried about his safety. I didn’t realize how much physical pain he experienced during the year until I read his wilderness journal, and I was careful not to tell him about personal difficulties in my own life. I noted in retrospect that we each tried to protect the other from undue anxiety.
Prior to leaving Canada, Bob said he would probably like me to come and stay with him on the island after his year in solitude to help him reorient to people. But he wouldn’t know for sure whether he would be able to tolerate company until the year was almost over. I often wondered what the coming year would bring. Then, in October 2001, I decided to purchase a cheap round-trip ticket from Texas to Punta Arenas, Chile. I emailed Bob and told him I was planning a two-month expedition for February-March, but that he was under no pressure to make a decision about wanting visitors or not. If he didn’t want to see anyone at the end of solitude, I would have my own grand adventure in South America.
So I prepared myself for something I could not really plan for. I knew Bob would need my help at the end of his year, even if he didn’t know it. I was a fifty-two-year-old mother of two teenagers with limited finances, and it didn’t seem like the best time for me to go, but I was hearing the call of the unknown.
Before leaving Texas, I emailed the Chilean Navy and the major ferry service to arrange transportation out to Bob’s island. The navy never responded, and the ferry officials said they would not make an unscheduled stop in the middle of nowhere. It was frustrating, but I knew from previous experience in Latin America that business often doesn’t move along unless you are there in person. There was nothing to do but hope I could arrange things once I arrived in Chile. Never having been to South America before, I stepped into the void.
On February 1, 2002, I arrived in Punta Arenas at midnight after thirty-six hours of flights and layovers. There was a remarkable absence of wind, which I had been told never stops blowing. In fact, this would be one of the last windless nights I would experience in a long time. Even after reading Bob’s reports, I didn’t grasp the fierceness of the weather until I was actually on the island.
In his February check-in email Bob said he was looking forward to seeing me when the year was over, and he sent a list of food to bring to the island. I spent days in Punta Arenas making repeated shopping trips, little by little buying the produce and dry goods Bob had asked for.
During his last month in solitude, Bob went completely out of email communication. Since my arrival in Chile, I had received no personal note about how I was to get to his island, and I was furious with him. I felt abandoned and didn’t know exactly what to do. I was completely on my own, but I still had faith in the process.
But I wasn’t as alone as I thought. Bob had told me to contact Alejandra Silva, a biologist with the Chilean National Parks Service in Punta Arenas. When I visited her, she reassured me that everything was set with the navy. I still have no idea why they didn’t responded to my emails, but when I went to see the commander, he acted as if he had been waiting to hear from me. Having secured transportation, I could finally relax.
My last day in Punta Arenas brought its own serendipity. In the central plaza, a group of young people was drumming and dancing, and they had attracted the attention of a documentary film crew from South Africa. The South Africans were trying, unsuccessfully, to talk with the dancers, so I stepped in to translate. After the dancing ended, I spent some time chatting with the crew and told them why I was in South America and about Bob’s fieldwork. They were captivated and told me it was critical to get film documentation of his project.
I balked at the idea since Bob had never talked about videotaping his work. A video camera was expensive, and I might be stuck with it if he didn’t want to film his life on the island. Besides, I had never used a video camera. But the South Africans insisted that Bob’s work should not be relegated to a PhD dissertation sitting on a dusty shelf somewhere, and they thought a documentary could perhaps be made of his fieldwork. I finally agreed.
By this time it was late in the afternoon, and I rushed to the camera store. It had closed, but I pleaded with the people inside to let me in. Ten minutes later I was back on the street with a camera, an extra battery, twenty film cassettes, and a receipt for over $600 USD. Trust the process indeed! The next morning, my last day in Punta Arenas, I met the filmmakers for an early breakfast, and they gave me a crash course on operating the camera and basic shooting techniques. I spent the next two days in a pension in Puerto Natales, and at dawn on February 15 I boarded the navy patrol boat La Yagan. Shortly after casting off, the crew gathered on the captain’s deck, made a circle, prayed, and passed out life vests. I was not included in the prayer circle, and they didn’t give me a life vest. I wondered if I should be afraid, but decided there was nothing to be done.
En route I tried to imagine what it would be like to see Bob. We had spent a lot of time together camping and fishing in the wilderness, and it had not always been easy to be with him. His perfectionism sometimes spilled out onto me, and we would have to step apart to deal with the discomfort. I never liked it when he was picky with me, but I usually just let it go because I knew he tormented himself more than he ever criticized me. It was just a fact of his way in the world. He could be a very demanding partner. Would I find it too difficult to be with him after he had had a year all to himself? Would I be comfortable in camp? Would he welcome the camera and the company? Would I be a real help with the work? I would soon see.
As for the navy crew, they expressed concern that I might find a madman on the island. It had never occurred to me that Bob might have gone insane, and I had no sense that there was anything to be afraid of. I suspect the navy crew thought I was as mentally unsound as Bob.
Ten hours after leaving Puerto Natales I was sliding from La Yagan down into Bob’s inflatable boat. I was delighted to see him but remained fairly quiet. I had decided that during the first few days on the island, I did not want to overwhelm him with conversation and information. This taciturn approach was not necessary. Bob was a chatty magpie from the moment I arrived. He flooded me with information about the camp and himself. It seemed clear that he had been lonely and had missed conversation. Bob is a storyteller by nature, and he certainly was ready to unfurl himself. He seemed cheerful and steady and happy to share details about his life. He looked a bit gaunt, and I could tell he had lost at least thirty pounds since I had last seen him.
That first night on the island was warm and cozy, and Bob was quite comfortable as the host. I went to sleep listening to the waves lapping the graveled shore. It was a sound that would lull me to sleep every night for the next month. It is a sound I can recall at will whenever I am having a restless bedtime.
My first few days on the island were essentially show-and-tell. We took a boat ride into the mountains. Bob told stories about the cabin and the weather. I told Bob that Deneal Amos had died the previous spring, and then I told him about September 11, 2001. He didn’t seem unusually upset by this. He had not witnessed the media overexposure to the tragedy, and he immediately put it in perspective with the other daily tragedies that occur around the world.
The video camera affected my experience on the island. Our original plan was to spend a relaxing two weeks before starting to take down camp, but the leisure time never materialized. The first weeks were spent documenting various aspects of the camp, daily life, and Bob’s stories about his past year.
I was very happy for the opportunity to see Bob’s solitude post, and I think he was glad to have someone to share it with. He was generous in taking care of my physical and spiritual needs, and he did everything he could to help me experience as much as possible of this small world he had so intimately inhabited for twelve months. To be correct, what I refer to as a cabin was not really a cabin, but a beautiful refuge. I noted the elegance of design, the attention to detail in the carpentry, the stark simplicity in form and function. It was easy to feel at home and fall into the daily routine of living; everything seemed so graceful.
Experiencing the beauty of the mountains, sea, wildlife, and weather was a peak experience for me. There were moments when I felt profound joy and heard an inner voice saying, “This is enough.” This shift of consciousness was facilitated by Bob’s careful low-impact approach. Everything he had built fit into place and did not interrupt the flow of the island. The camp seemed as natural as the trees and dense underbrush. Bob had clearly been in his element when he made his home, and he had been very respectful of the nonhuman world around him. It seemed evident that he had made himself a guest of the environment and not a lord of the manse.
I have always been jealous of Bob’s fieldwork. While there, I, too, felt the siren song of solitude calling deep to my being, but it was easy for me to forget that I arrived to a comfortable camp. I never would have been able to build a camp with so many amenities, and I would not have been able to sustain myself during the fierce weather, which plagued me and was much nastier than I had expected. I could not have survived as Bob had; I just got a taste of all the best.
Cat took no time at all in becoming comfortable with me even though I was only the second person he had seen since he was a wee kitten. He took to sitting in my lap and rubbing up and down my leg when I was quiet. I don’t remember ever hearing him make a sound. Later, back in Texas, I read in Bob’s journal about his tempestuous relationship with Cat. It surprised me because I saw no indication of hard feelings between them. They were always affectionate with each other when I was on the island.
Watching Bob sky fishing was a treat. He seemed so happy and so unified with his environment when he was out on the point, working the long-tailed kite to keep it from plunging into the sea. It is a rather rare event to see someone one with his element, and it brought a deep joy to witness it. Bob seemed so carefree when flying that lovely handmade kite, as if everything in his universe had disappeared, with the exception of man, fishing rod, wind, water, and kite. Bliss indeed!
Deconstruction of camp was as mindful as construction had been. It was also a physical grunt. Truly, dismantling everything and erasing our footprints were formidable tasks. I was physically exhausted by the end of the long days, and every morning I woke up feeling less energetic than the day before. The rain and wind never seemed to stop. The camp became smaller each day as we tore down the cabin and outhouse, bundled the tarp, and burned the wood frame. Bob wanted to leave the island with few traces of his habitation, and I respect him for his commitment to that.
Despite our best efforts, our plan to be completely ready to go when the navy arrived was thrown to the wind when they unexpectedly appeared four hours earlier than expected. There had been fierce storms for the previous two days and the navy was in a hurry to get back to Puerto Natales, so it was a mad slapdash rush to get off the island.
Suddenly we had a major problem. The captain of the patrol boat did not want to haul out our bundles of trash. They insisted that Bob just leave the refuse on the island. This was, of course, against Bob’s intent. I witnessed a display of male confrontation as neither Bob nor the captain would come off their stance. At one point Bob told the captain he would not leave without all the waste material, and the only way they could get him off the island would be in handcuffs. We seemed at an impasse.
Then I stepped forward to say that I would leave with the navy, and Bob could remain on the island until I could find some commercial boat to come and get him and the sacks of trash. Of course I had no idea how to do that, but I think my suggestion helped to show the captain that Bob was firm in his decision. As soon as I said we could leave Bob behind, the captain gave in and allowed everything off the island. What a relief! I haven’t had much experience with macho displays, and I was happy when the issue was settled.
We quickly ferried all the camp materials out to the navy boat. In a couple of hours our gear was stowed, Cat was crated on board, and Bob and I were on the captain’s deck as we shoved off for Puerto Natales. I was sad to leave but physically grateful, as I had reached my limit of sleeping on the hard floor of the tent. I ached all over.
Bob spent several hours alone on the open deck of the patrol boat, bundled up in rain gear and his angora wool cap, looking back toward the island we were leaving behind. Light rain was falling. I wondered what thoughts were playing with him as we left his home of the past thirteen months. His solitude was broken, and there were few traces that he had ever been on the island. It was a quiet, peaceful ride back to Natales, and we arrived in port long after dark.
Cat turned out to be quite an adventurer. Bob asked me to take Cat home with me until he returned to Vancouver and could take him back. We got him immunizations and a health certificate, and Cat accompanied me on the airplane back to Texas. At home, I kept him indoors for about three weeks. He loved lying on my bed and being treated like a small furry prince. He enjoyed the attention and comfort of indoor living and was very affectionate to everyone. After he was established, we decided it was time to let him out to wander. He wasn’t meant to be a house cat, and I hoped he would have exciting adventures as he patrolled the Texas hills around me.
I seriously doubted Bob would ever get settled enough to have Cat as a roommate, but I was happy to have the pup. Sadly, after a week of going out to explore and returning to sleep on my bed, Cat did not return one evening. I never saw him again. I searched the roads to see if he had been hit by a car, but found no trace. I live in a rural area where wild hogs and coyote abound, and my theory is that he went out one night, had a seizure, and a coyote got him. I was sorry to lose him.
What are the effects of solitude I perceive in Bob today? I know him probably as well as anyone does, and it’s hard to translate my perceptions. Solitude did leave its mark. How could it not? No one could go through a year of solitude and be unchanged. He seems gentled, not so judgmental of himself and of others, more patient, more willing to share his private time. Overall I find Bob to be much less critical and demanding than ever before.
His countenance reveals a man who has experienced both deep joy and pain. His eyes now have a depth of experience that was not visible before. He presents a lighter touch to the universe. He did not find the ultimate answers he sought, but he is now somewhat whimsical about even posing the questions. Bob has always been very generous toward me, and I detect that he now extends that generosity more to others as well. Certainly I experience the changes as positive, but they are merely amplifications of the wisdom and gentleness I always saw within him.
Bob’s honesty shines in his work. Rarely do we read accounts of such bare personal truth. His journal offers more than a heroic tale. It is a picture of a man struggling to accept his own humanness. His commitment to remain open and honest to his own process is a strong invitation to each of us to abandon the likely stories we tell ourselves about our daily life and to step cleanly and fully into the life that is ours.
When I read Bob’s journal, I am transported into his world of solitude and also into my own experience of solitude. I am honored to have had the opportunity to share in his journey. This, too, is enough!