Squinting, I try to make out the silhouette coming towards me through the dark. My heart is racing. I fumble frantically in my sleeping bag for my phone. With a trembling hand I at least find my torch. I aim the beam at the snorting object, which is now standing barely a few metres from me. "AAAAAAARGH!" bursts uncontrollably from my throat as we look each other in the eye. Me and a wild boar! I leap out of my sleeping bag on reflex. He just grunts irritably and disappears. For a while I keep staring after him into the dark, shaken. But nobody else seems to be coming, and it's pretty chilly. I glance at my watch. It's just after midnight, so I crawl back into the warmth of my sleeping bag.
My eyes quickly grow heavy. No wonder. I've got over thirty kilometres of hilly terrain in my legs, carrying a full pack. The steady rustle of leaves fluttering in the gentle breeze of a September night works on me like a lullaby. I'm almost asleep when I hear the snorting and footsteps again. "The boar," I think, half-asleep. "Who else would be coming round here now." I pull my hood over my head and go back to sleep. I don't wake until the birds start singing. I watch the morning sunbeams pushing through the branches. The forest is waking up to a sunny day and the air smells of an Indian summer. I stir freshly picked sweet blackberries into my porridge for breakfast and enjoy the simple present with all my senses: just me and the forest.
After breakfast I pack everything into my rucksack and set off on the next leg of my solitary journey. It's become a sort of annual ritual for me. Walk wherever my legs carry me, sleep, and carry on. For a few days at least. Just me and myself – over hill and dale.
This year, though, I didn't have much time for wandering. So I set out to cross at least the Brdy hills near home, from Prague to Jince. As I tackle today's stretch of the ridge path from the summit of Babka to Studený vrch, memories of past journeys run through my head: the Jizera Mountains, the Giant Mountains, the Alps. I wonder what draws me to this regular personal tradition. It's a natural experience of freedom. No work "deadlines" and no questions like "Mum, my legs hurt, are we there yet?" Breaking away from everyday problems automatically gives me more room to take in nature and the world around me. Without any particular expectations, solutions and all sorts of ideas about what to do with my life come of their own accord.
Now I can smile about my night-time encounter with the boar, and in daylight it seems like a funny story. At night, though, it was a challenge.
Other times I've had the pleasure of getting lost without a GPS signal, of the elements running riot, of thirst without a drop of water and not a spring in sight. On a solitary journey you have to be able to cope with all of that. If you manage, you come out of the woods with more strength and self-confidence.
Adventure therapy, mindfulness, forest bathing and other new personal-growth trends have one thing in common: a return to our roots. To nature. To ourselves and our own abilities.
I'm nearing "Studeňák" – my goal for today. For a while I soak up the lovely view while grey clouds roll in from the north. It looks like it'll rain tonight, and I need to choose my sleeping spot accordingly. Later I pitch a tarp over my trekking poles so the rain won't catch me out. No sooner have I curled up in my sleeping bag after dinner than the familiar drip, drip, drip begins. The rain taps out its rhythm on the tarp as I drift off contentedly – in the middle of the forest, yet right at home. On a solitary journey to myself and my roots.
