The Difference Between Lonely and Alone

by Kelly Fernald

There were three miles of ocean separating me from the land and hills of Mount Desert Island and Acadia National Park. Growing up on Little Cranberry Island, I’d perch my 10-year-old self upon an outcropping of rocks on the east side of the island and gaze toward “the mainland” of MDI. I longed to go somewhere, be anywhere other than where I sat.

I lacked a frame of reference for how preteen kids from the “real” world lived, acted, and played. I struggled to find my way when I had no beaten path to follow toward prepubescent and adolescent development. As soon as possible, I promised myself, I would leave that place where natural beauty and raw, painful emotions were as intertwined as was the rope my dad tethered his lobster traps to.

And I did. I moved to Portland, Maine’s largest city, where I’ve lived for 42 years.

In retrospect, I understand that the beauty of that oceanscape hadn’t eluded me. I knew it was a special place with an aesthetic so exquisite it made me ache to be a part of it. So it’s not surprising to me that the highlights of my life have been time spent outdoors in natural surroundings. With partners and friends, I’ve spent countless hours in kayaks and hiking boots, on skis, snowshoes, and bikes propelling myself through the wilderness. Sometimes with a smile, sometimes with an exhausted grimace, but always grateful for the opportunity to share these experiences with close companions.

What I’m acutely aware of is that my most profound experiences have been when I’ve ventured on these journeys alone. On solo kayak-camping trips along the Maine coast, I’ve spent many a sunrise and sunset sitting upon an outcropping of rocks on various deserted islands. The irony of this, or what might seem like irony, isn’t lost on me. Certainly, the old feelings of loneliness and longing have joined me on those trips. But so has bliss–gratitude for having learned at an early age how to be alone, how to engage with the natural world and feel a part of it. 

For the past decade I’ve been a part-time resident of MDI, with plans for full-time residency within the year. While that early longing to “go somewhere” propelled me to do some traveling afar, the waters, trails, and roads of Acadia National Park have been what has most called to me. My gravel bike allows me to take long rides on the carriage roads where, as I climb up the winding hills, I’m afforded stellar views of the island where I was raised and where most of my family still resides. This vantage point, like a reflection of who I was, helps me to understand who I’ve become and to recognize that I’m home.

Photos by Chris Shane

Photos 8 & 9 in gallery below by Nick LaVecchia