There is a phrase the Italians use, dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. I thought I understood it. It turns out I had to hike into the Virginia backcountry, run out of things to distract myself with, and get taught the lesson by an insect before it actually landed.
This is the story of a two-night solo trip to Overall Run, home to Shenandoah's highest waterfall, and the strange, uncomfortable, and ultimately wonderful business of forcing yourself to get bored.
Why I went, and why alone
I have been drifting toward more serious solo backpacking, and this year I decided to invest in it properly. My old two-person tent and my old pack were both on the heavier side, and as I get older I would rather protect my knees and my back than prove anything to anyone. So I picked up a lightweight single-person tent, the NEMO Dragonfly OSMO 1P, and a new pack. REI has an excellent collection, and after one shakeout session running with the loaded pack, I felt ready.
The plan was simple. Drive out, sleep near the trailhead, hike down to camp near the swim holes below the falls, spend a full slow day there, and hike back out. Two days, one real night in the backcountry, and a lot of unstructured time. That last part was the point, though I did not yet understand how much of a challenge it would become.
I packed a couple of luxuries because I knew I would have hours to fill. A book to read. I was looking forward to a dip in the swim holes. I considered bringing binoculars and, in the end, left them behind. I will come back to that book.
Day one: a Tesla, a campground, and a message from space
I rolled into Mathews Arm Campground around 9:30 pm on May 8th and slept in my Tesla. There was no cell network to tell my wife I had made it, which is exactly the kind of small thing that can quietly stress out the person waiting at home. So I tested the new satellite messaging feature on the iPhone. It was slow, but it worked, and it kept her in the loop on where I was the whole trip. A good night's sleep followed.
Day two: the art of going slow
I was up at 6 am on May 9th. Banana oats for breakfast, a little stretching, and on the trail by 8. The route down was roughly 4.5 miles with about 1,900 feet of elevation loss, dropping past the intersection with Thompson Hollow Trail to the swim holes.
I could have made camp in about two and a half hours. I did not want to. The whole reason I came was to immerse myself in nature, so I made myself take it slow. I stopped for spring blossoms and the impossibly fresh green of new leaves. I stood at the waterfall. I filmed little clips of myself moving through it all, trying to soak in every moment. And despite all my deliberate dawdling, I still reached camp by 11:30 am.
Two lessons arrived quickly. First, I had eaten only that light breakfast and nothing since, and my body let me know it wanted fuel. Second, and this was the real mistake, I had not packed any electrolytes. My muscles felt weak and hollow. I set up the tent, ate lunch, and rested. I walked down to the Overall Run stream and collected water in my 4 liter bladder to filter for the rest of the stay, so at least hydration was covered.
Then came the swim. Cold, clean, and completely restorative. A handful of day hikers passed through, some just walking, some stopping for their own dip. I traded easy conversation with a few of them. Nobody else was camping. As the afternoon wore on, it would be just me.
The long afternoon, and the urge to leave
Here is the part nobody puts in the trip photos.
After the swim, I did not know what to do with myself. No internet. No entertainment on my phone, which was the entire point. But it had been so long since I had truly detached that the silence felt like pressure rather than peace. I felt an obligation to entertain myself and nothing to do it with. The flies and gnats were relentless. I opened the book I had carried all this way and could not get past the introduction.
At one low point I genuinely considered packing up, hiking out, and driving home. It was completely doable. But that was not what I came for. So I made a decision that sounds silly written down: I would get bored to death if that is what it took. I would not hide in the tent either. I came to be in nature, so I would be in it.
So I started to simply observe. Butterflies. Birds. Insects. Running water. Clouds moving. Trees leaning and swaying in the wind. And slowly, without my forcing it, the boredom turned into something else. It settled into a kind of calm I never reach in the daily grind. Call it meditation. I had spent years unable to find it on a cushion, and here it was, handed to me by a stream and some clouds because I had finally run out of alternatives.
The golden hour felt like it took the whole day to arrive. When it did, I took photos, ate dinner, and slid into the tent for the night.
The insect that taught me dolce far niente
As I lay down, I noticed an insect just outside the mesh, under the rainfly. It kept flying off and returning to the exact same spot. I tried, several times, to shoo it away. It came back every time. Eventually I gave up and did the only thing left to do. I watched it.
It was getting dark and I had nothing else going on, so I just observed this small creature go about its business. After a while it stopped. It went still, settled in that same spot it had fought to keep. Around me the forest was going quiet too. No more birdsong, no more buzzing of flies and gnats. I kept my eyes on that insect, and I do not know the moment I fell asleep.
It felt like the insect had found its spot to teach me it is okay to do nothing. Dolce far niente.
People assume a night alone in the woods makes you anxious. I had the best sleep I had had in a long time. My Garmin watch agreed, a sleep score of 94. I half expected to see my little teacher in the morning, but it had likely woken before me and was already back out on its own missions.
Day three: one more dip, one more lesson
Around 5 am the forest came back to life, birdsong first, soft and soothing. I was in no hurry and lingered in the sleeping bag until about 6. Then I decided to take one more dip in the swim hole before heading out, and I did exactly that.
Breakfast, pack up, on the trail around 8 am. The hike back was roughly 5.5 miles with about 2,200 feet of climbing, and it was tiring, made more so because I had drained my water and had foolishly not refilled my hydration bladder before leaving. Lesson filed for next time. I reached the car by 11:30 am.
What I actually carried out
The falls were beautiful and the swim holes were a gift, but that is not what stayed with me. What stayed with me was the discovery that I had forgotten how to be bored, and that on the other side of boredom, if you refuse to run from it, there is a stillness worth hiking miles to find.
I went to the backcountry to see the highest waterfall in Shenandoah. I came home having learned to do nothing, taught by an insect, under a rainfly, on the best night of sleep I had had in months.
Bring the electrolytes. Fill the bladder. And let yourself get a little bored. It might be the whole point.
