Traveling Alone: Choosing Freedom, Solitude & Self-Trust

Gypsy Wagon and the Rock, Joshua Tree National Park.

Enroute to meet my van builder—to meet Gypsy Wagon’s magician—I pulled into a campsite in Joshua Tree National Park just as the sun was setting; at the west end of the time zone, this meant slightly after 5:00 pm. This didn’t align well with my current circadian clock. It’d been another long day of driving, and I was lucky to find one of the last remaining sites in a small campground encircling a very large granite outcrop—the quintessential Dr. Seuss figures for which Joshua Tree is renowned. That, and, of course, the Joshua trees (Yucca brevifolia) themselves. My neighbors were close, but there weren’t many of them, so it wasn’t a bother.

On this trip, I’ve been quite conscious of being a woman traveling alone, more so than normal. This, for a host of reasons. In preparation for the build, my van is almost empty, save a bed platform, a small duffel bag of clothes, and several plastic tubs holding essential camping gear. No rugs to take the edge off the cold, metal floor; no bench to lounge on; little kitchen gear—i.e., kinda uncomfortable. It’s also winter. And, while it’s relatively mild and I have plenty of down, I still don’t want to end up in a situation of any kind. I no longer have my trusty Clementine to accompany me (and to scare off strangers, if necessary). (Goddess, do I miss her.)

I’d driven across the full expanse of Nevada. Of all the places I’ve been, this part of the country feels the most desolate, the most forlorn, the creepiest place to encounter a situation. And, it stretches on for miles, encompassing the vast majority of the state. Think: unending miles of open roadway, expansive basin and range, and limited cell service, punctuated only by the occasional desolate (and private) ranch road. If there were other routes to take me to the places I want to go, I’d surely choose them. My former partner and I drove these routes together many times and often ditched it on nondescript dirt roads. While still conscious of our surroundings, I felt far less vulnerable with him. But solo, it was a different ballgame.

Perhaps most ominous of all is the state of our nation. A second murder in Minneapolis this week is serving to further embolden those embracing hatred and violence against those who advocate for tolerance, love, diversity. It makes me question my safety. The feeling is following me around despite the peace of my surroundings. To wit, when I pulled into the park, I was presented with the choice of paying a $30 entrance fee or renewing my $80 annual National Park pass. I chose the latter. It took me a moment to register that the pass I received bore the image of our president next to George Washington. I’d heard this was the case—in the context of women who were knitting pass holders that covered his face, and hoping to get away with it—but had forgotten about it, until just then. I am now in possession of a card bearing his image. In no other world would I choose this—everything about this man is antithetical to the spirit of the National Park System and further reinforces a general (and unfamiliar) sense of discomfort.

No words

To mitigate all of this, rather than sleep at any ol’ dispersed camping spot on public lands, I chose to stay at developed campgrounds (one a state campground, the other a national campground) that required reservations and a fee, offered a few services and, in one case had a campground host, and the second, a guard station to enter the park. The first one required a 10-hour (yup, draining) drive, but it put me most of the way to the my destination and in the southern, more populous part of the state, which for some reason, feels less creepy. In both cases, I landed at truly beautiful, peaceful—and safe—spots to breathe, hike, sleep, and even write. I mean look at these places.

Look at these places

So here I was, awakening in Joshua Tree, beside the Rock. I eventually braved the cold and went outside to make some coffee. Neither neighbor on either side was stirring. I went about organizing my camp, drinking coffee, and when it warmed up, started to write. Eventually an older man emerged from the RV next door and in short time, walked down the dirt road in my direction. We greeted each other. I couldn’t really suss out his scene immediately—the gear in his camp said motorhead, and I suspected we were from different walks of life, and possibly of different political persuasions. He clearly had been sussing me out too as one of the first things he said was, “I’ve seen far more women traveling alone or traveling with another women—or lesbians, you know—than I’ve seen men traveling alone.” I didn’t address his comment except to say I was enroute to meet my van builder. To address it would have been to enter a deeper conversation, one that might have started with: This aligns with the zeitgeist—married men are happier than single men; single women are happier than married men. Women are breaking the shackles of societal norms and expectations. They are shedding the good girl conditioning. They’re doing the things that society tells them they shouldn’t. But I was on a mission, this week in particular was not the time, and I didn’t have it in me—I wanted to write.

I live in a community of adventurers and freedom-seekers where my choices are not strange. But elsewhere, I’ve learned that a life shaped by agency can be unsettling to those whose paths have been guided more by obligation than by choice. It’s a recurring theme, sometimes showing up as projection, critique, or as a subtle suggestion that independence is a flaw rather than a freedom.

I’ve reached a place in my life where this no longer lands as an injury. Living alone, living deliberately, and letting go of relationships that ask me to be smaller has made more room for what makes my heart sing: uncountable adventures, room to learn and explore, a rich community of global friends. I know myself; I trust the path I’m walking. And that, it turns out, is enough.

xo Wendy

How do you experience solitude in your life—as refuge, challenge, freedom, or something else entirely?