Anatomy of Solitude ~ A Brief History of hermits, recluses, misanthropes and petty thieves on the lam
“Meditation means the capacity to be joyously alone, the capacity to be happy with yourself, the capacity to keep company with yourself.”
If not for an unexpected detour and a dash of luck, I would have never met sheepherder Ander Arrieta, and I would be all the poorer for it.
In June 1985, I was traveling through Moffat County, Colorado, on my way to Alaska when I spotted a gaily painted wagon similar to the ones depicted in films about Gypsies.
It was mid-afternoon, and I was on a rugged detour through mountains and deep canyons. Entranced by the colorful domicile, I pulled off the road and got out my binoculars. I noticed a large herd of sheep on a mountain terrace just above the wagon. Several dogs were running hither and yon, keeping the sheep together, while a single horse was picketed a short distance from the wagon.
Just as I was about to get out my telephoto camera lens to snap a photo, a man stepped out of the wagon and set about starting a campfire. Despite my plans to arrive in Montpelier, Idaho, before dark, I acted impulsively and started walking up the grassy hillside, drawn to the charming scene.
As I approached the man, he stood up and raised his hand as a greeting. I followed suit and walked forward to explain my curiosity about his home and surroundings. He extended his hand and shook mine quite heartily, introducing himself as Ander Arrieta.
I planned to get a picture and not bother Ander more than necessary. Instead, it was as if he hadn’t talked to a human in quite some time, and that turned out to be the case.
Over coffee, Ander explained that he was a sheepherder from the Basque region of Spain, as was his father and generations of his family before him. He had been at it for more than 40 years, spending the winter months herding in the Basque and doing the same each summer in the United States.
Mr. Arrieta and I talked for at least two hours, switching from coffee to a flavorful fermented apple drink called sagardoa. He spoke eloquently of his many experiences with bears, mountain lions and wolves, all of which were out to get his sheep.
I finally got around to asking Ander if he ever got lonely. He had mentioned earlier that he rarely saw anybody and conversed with even fewer.
“Occasionally, I feel pangs of loneliness, particularly during Basque holidays and on family events like marriages and births. But the feeling is fleeting as I have much to do, and I love working in such beautiful country.”
Ander added that he is an avid reader, which keeps any feelings of loneliness at bay. When asked what his favorite books are, he said “Walden” by Thoreau and “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez—go figure!
I returned to my truck with a whole new perspective. Here was a man who cherished and relished his life of near solitude in constantly changing but always beautiful surroundings.
Ander Arrieta proudly and happily followed his family’s tradition. To be happy and fulfilled, he only needed a herd of sheep, three Basque Shepherd Dogs, a sturdy Basque Mountain Horse, and his books. Ironically, I was on a six-month unpaid sabbatical trying to find myself. His lifestyle was a source of food for thought about living a simple life in which you never stop learning. He sent me away with something to consider on my way to Alaska.
“Hell is Other People” ~ Jean Paul Sartre
This commonly misused phrase doesn’t mean what you may think. Sartre is not referring to misanthropes, people who dislike others; instead, he is discussing how we are affected by how others perceive us. Sartre presents a compelling argument against giving too much credence to others’ thoughts on how to pursue happiness and satisfaction.
Before delving more deeply into the many reasons and categories that attract people who seek lives with little to no interaction with others, we must explore our own propensity for solitude: do we have what it takes?
How about you, reader? Are you uncomfortable when isolated? Is the silence, as they say, deafening and disturbing? I have used the term “isolated” to distinguish between being alone and being lonely; they are not the same thing.
Have you ever intentionally isolated yourself for an extended period? If so, were you comfortable with it? Did you benefit from spending time without human contact?
Perhaps you enjoy and find serenity in solitude, or the very thought of being alone is unbearable. I have a friend or two who cannot tolerate an empty house, let alone living alone in a Himalayan cave for decades. At the same time, other friends think nothing of hiking the Appalachian Trail alone.
Are the lone adventurers hermits? Not necessarily, solitude seekers come in various forms, including, but not limited to, hermits, recluses, misanthropes, fugitives, lone wolves, cloistered nuns and anchorites.
We should begin by examining the definitions of the two words most often used to describe individuals who voluntarily isolate themselves from most, if not all, social interaction. If you equate being a hermit with being a recluse, be aware that there are significant differences between the two terms, and they are not interchangeable.
According to the much-trusted Cambridge Dictionary, a hermit (noun) is “A person who lives alone and apart from the rest of society, especially for religious reasons.” A synonym of hermit is anchorite, which carries the same meaning with only slight differences. Note that the definition of both terms includes the phrase “religious” reasons.
As for the derivation of the word “hermit,” it is first mentioned as a noun in the Middle English period, from 1150 to 1500 AD. The poet Layamon employed the word in his writings in 1275 AD.
That brings us to the word “recluse,” which has a different connotation than the term “hermit.” According to the Cambridge Dictionary, a recluse is a person who lives alone and avoids social interaction, typically by staying indoors and refraining from contact with others. (That definition hits close to home.)
When thinking of famous recluses, a sterling example is Howard Hughes in the latter half of his life. We find J.D. Salinger in the same category; he withdrew from public life after writing The Catcher in the Rye, refusing interviews, and even his writing came to a near halt.
Among the well-known recluses are Bobby Fischer, Greta Garbo, Marlon Bran-do, John Lennon, Emily Dickinson, Brian Wilson, Gene Hackman, and many more. These personalities demand and value privacy and are often described as recluses. So, reader, if you feel the label recluse describes you, you’re in great company.
The media often describe Ted Kaczynski as a recluse; perhaps a misanthrope better describes the Unabomber. As we shall soon see, there are many variations on the theme of being reclusive; criminality is one of those.
Yes, Ted was a recluse, but his way of reaching out was by killing others who promoted modern technology. He feared modern technology threatened humanity and could only be mitigated through violent revolution. Clearly, Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys and poet Emily Dickinson are not in the same recluse category as Mr. Kaczynski.
Pocahontas County is endowed with endless mountains, hollows and deep forests, and it has attracted writers, poets, artists and talented people of all stripes who have literally “headed for the hills.” Our rugged topography attracts those seeking a socially off-grid lifestyle. Many of these people would fit the description of recluses and possibly even hermits.
Author’s Note: While writing this article, I planned to meet with some local introverts in a group to discuss their motivations for living a life of solitude. Of course, being disinclined toward social gatherings and true to their creed, nobody showed up. Ah, you saw that coming, didn’t you?
In part two of this series on hermits, recluses, and their various iterations, we will spotlight three extraordinary American hermits, all with different motivations for living in solitude.
We will tell the story of a man who drove his truck into the woods of northern Maine until it could go no further. He abandoned the vehicle with the keys still in the ignition and set off to the most remote and rocky area he could find, where he stayed, unnoticed, for 27 years. He would have stayed longer, but his petty theft of food from nearby summer cottages landed him in the hoosegow for seven months.
Then we will visit a real West Virginia hermit, a former nun who cloistered at a hermitage for nearly 30 years. Apparently, that didn’t answer all of her questions about life and her faith, so she bought a secluded cabin and lived in solitude for another six years here in the Mountain State.
Last, but certainly not least, we will meet an immensely talented and erudite man who, in 1967, headed off into the wilds of Alaska, built a cabin, and stayed for 30 years.
Until next time,
Ken Springer
ken1949bongo@gmail.com