eremission (n.) a blend of quiet relief and elation felt when solitude is broken by the presence of another soul—like encountering a fellow wanderer on a remote trail.
(from Greek eremos – solitude, and Latin remissio – release, relief)
It follows me without complaint, without questions, without emotions. It follows with nothing at all, because by nature, it is absence. Every now and then, it reminds me of itself—when the sun hangs low on the horizon, or when, at night, I step into the beam of someone’s headlamp. It leaves me in darkness and at noon on the equator. In the loneliest hours, it is proof of my existence. Ex libris on the white pages of snow-covered slopes. An impermanent tattoo on the wrinkled skin of canyons. My shadow—my most faithful, and often only, companion on the trail.
I have grown attached to my shadow, and it to me, echoing my every move, step for step, through years of shared, solitary wanderings. There is a beautiful irony in this: that with a shadow, one can do things together, yet in solitude. I have grown attached to my shadow, and yet, when I turn toward the sun, I turn my back on it— without a shadow of doubt. The same happens when I meet someone on the trail. The light of awareness, pouring into the world through the windows of their eyes, like sunlight, casts my shadow behind me. And I am reminded that, despite its weightlessness, one’s own shadow can be a burden—especially when it has been trailing behind through long, solitary hours.
I stand on the western summit of Mount Baldy in the San Gabriel Mountains. Beside me stands a ghostly dog. It appeared out of nowhere—no owner, no leash. We gaze in the same direction, toward Iron Mountain. It is not a good day to traverse from one peak to the other. The heat is relentless, and the next thirty kilometers hold nothing but scree-laden descents, alpine forests, a tangled labyrinth of thorny shrubs, a jagged ridge with some climbing sections, a brutally steep descent from Iron Mountain, and… not a single source of water. I see it all laid out before me. I wet my lips with today’s most precious currency and move forward. The trace of my steps vanishes among the sliding rocks. The dog vanishes too. I am alone-not-alone now. My shadow is my guide.
The world stands still in the midday heat. I am abandoned by the shadow cast by towering pines. I am abandoned by the shadow of the path left behind by the few who came before me. It disappeared with my legs in the barbed thicket of buckthorn. I reach the sun-scorched, dark granite. Climbing is agony. The sun burns my back, the rock scorches my hands, my face, my chest. My water runs out faster than it should.
The descent from Iron Mountain is a reminder that the summit is only half the journey. The trail leading down, steep and eroded by spring rains, drains more from me than the climb itself. After hours of marching, I am reduced to a single, primal need: water. The river is still two hours away. One hour, if I start running.
I reach the water in a desperate sprint, driven by thirst. By the bend where I can safely use my filter, I come across a family. Three generations escaping to the river from an unseasonably early heatwave. They look at me as if I were insane. Maybe I am? Maybe I look the part—dirty, drenched in sweat, with wild eyes rimmed by the crystalline salt of the past hours. They don’t ask questions, just offer me a bottle of cold water or Gatorade. Politeness wins over primal need, and I only ask for water. I must look truly miserable, because they hand me two bottles of Gatorade and two more of water.
Exhausted, I sink into the river, sheltered from the current by massive boulders. They are pale and cool—so unlike the ones I scrambled over just hours ago. It’s a different microcosm. The children play around me, splash water into my face. They laugh and dive before I can splash back. One boy examines a bright red stone with his grandfather, turning it over in the light.
That’s me! That’s my grandfather! I think.
The salt of the past hours blends with the salt of this moment, spilling from my eyes and I let the current carry me downstream.
I emerge from the stream renewed—by the chill of the water, by the presence of others. I feel something I cannot name. Maybe there is no word for it. Or maybe there is now? Eremission, I think, as I move on. Just behind me, light-footed, my shadow follows.
Third Woods 