Something happened to Chris on that drive, the first and only road trip of his life. He headed north, through Georgia and the Carolinas and Virginia, blessed with the invincibility of youth, buzzed by “the pleasure of driving,” and an idea grew into a realization, then solidified into a resolve. All his life, he’d been comfortable being alone. Interacting with others was so often frustrating. Every meeting with another person seemed like a collision. As he drove, perhaps he felt within himself some rumblings of fear and thrill, as if at the precipice of a radical leap.
He continued all the way back to Maine. There aren’t many roads in the center of the state, and he chose the one that went right by his house. It wasn’t a coincidence. “I think it was just to have one last look around, to say good-bye.” He didn’t stop. The last time he saw his family home was through the windshield of the Brat.
He kept going, “up and up and up.” Soon he reached the shore of Moosehead Lake, the largest lake in Maine, where the state begins to get truly remote. “I drove until I was nearly out of gas. I took a small road. Then a small road off that small road. Then a trail off that.” He went as far into wilderness as his vehicle could take him.
He parked the car and put the keys on the center console. He had a tent and a backpack but no compass, no map. Without knowing where he was going, with no particular place in mind, he stepped into the trees and walked away.
13
But why? Why would a twenty-year-old kid with a job and a car and a brain abruptly abandon the world? The act had elements of a suicide, except he didn’t kill himself. “To the rest of the world, I ceased to exist,” said Knight. His family must have suffered; they had no idea what had happened to him, and couldn’t completely accept that he was dead. When his father died, fifteen years after the disappearance, Knight was still listed as a survivor in the obituary.
His final moment as a member of society—“I just tossed the keys on the center console”—seem particularly strange. Knight was raised with a keen appreciation for the value of money, and the Brat was the most expensive item he’d ever purchased. The car was less than a year old, and he threw it away. Why not hold on to the keys as a safety net? What if he didn’t like camping out?
“The car was of no use to me. It had just about zero gas and was miles and miles from any gas station.” As far as anyone knows, the Brat is still there, half-swallowed by the forest, a set of keys somewhere within, by this point as much a part of the wilderness as a product of civilization, perhaps like Knight himself.
Knight said that he didn’t really know why he left. He’d given the question plenty of thought but had never arrived at an answer. “It’s a mystery,” he declared. There was no specific cause he could name—no childhood trauma, no sexual abuse. There wasn’t alcoholism in his home, or violence. He wasn’t trying to hide anything, to cover a wrongdoing, to evade confusion about his sexuality.
Anyway, none of these burdens typically produces a hermit. There’s a sea of names for hermits—recluses, monks, misanthropes, ascetics, anchorites, swamis—yet no solid definitions or qualification standards, except the desire to be primarily alone. Some hermits have tolerated steady streams of visitors, or lived in cities, or holed up in university laboratories. But you can take virtually all the hermits in history and divide them into three general groups to explain why they hid: protesters, pilgrims, pursuers.
Protesters are hermits whose primary reason for leaving is hatred of what the world has become. Some cite wars as their motive, or environmental destruction, or crime or consumerism or poverty or wealth. These hermits often wonder how the rest of the world can be so blind, not to notice what we’re doing to ourselves.
“I have become solitary,” wrote the eighteenth-century French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, “because to me the most desolate solitude seems preferable to the society of wicked men which is nourished only in betrayals and hatred.”
Across much of Chinese history, it was customary to protest a corrupt emperor by leaving society and moving into the mountainous interior of the country. People who withdrew often came from the upper classes and were highly educated. Hermit protesters were so esteemed in China that a few times, tradition holds, when a non-corrupt emperor was seeking a successor, he passed over members of his own family and selected a solitary. Most turned down the offer, having found peace in reclusion.
The first great literary work about solitude, the Tao Te Ching, was written in ancient China, likely in the sixth century B.C., by a protester hermit named Lao-tzu. The book’s eighty-one short verses describe the pleasures of forsaking society and living in harmony with the seasons. The Tao Te Ching says that it is only through retreat rather than pursuit, through inaction rather than action, that we acquire wisdom. “Those with less become content,” says the Tao, “those with more become confused.” The poems, still widely read, have been hailed as a hermit manifesto for more than two thousand years.
Around a million protester hermits are living in Japan right now. They’re called hikikomori—“pulling inward”—and the majority are males, aged late teens and up, who have rejected Japan’s competitive, conformist, pressure-cooker culture. They have retreated into their childhood bedrooms and almost never emerge, in many cases for more than a decade. They pass the day reading or surfing the web. Their parents deliver meals to their doors, and psychologists offer them counseling online. The media has called them “the lost generation” and “the missing million.”
Pilgrims—religious hermits—are by far the largest group. The connection between seclusion and spiritual awakening is profound. Jesus of Nazareth, after his baptism in the River Jordan, withdrew to the wilderness and lived alone for forty days, then began attracting his apostles. Siddhārtha Gautama, in about 450 B.C., according to one version of the story, sat beneath a pipal tree in India, meditated for forty-nine days, and became Buddha. Tradition holds that the prophet Muhammad, in A.D. 610, was on a retreat in a cave near Mecca when an angel revealed to him the first of many verses that would become the Koran.
In Hindu philosophy, everyone ideally matures into a hermit. Becoming a sadhu, renouncing all familial and material attachments and turning to ritual worship, is the fourth and final stage of life. Some sadhus file their own death certificates, as their lives are considered terminated and they are legally dead to the nation of India. There are at least four million sadhus in India today.
During the Middle Ages, after the Desert Fathers and Mothers of Egypt died out, a new form of Christian solitary emerged, this time in Europe. They were called anchorites—the name is derived from an ancient Greek word for “withdrawal”—and they lived alone in tiny dark cells, usually attached to the outer wall of a church. The ceremony initiating a new anchorite often included the last rites, and the cell’s doorway was sometimes bricked over. Anchorites were expected to remain in their cells for the rest of their lives; in some cases, they did so for over forty years. This existence, they believed, would offer an intimate connection with God, and salvation. Servants delivered food and emptied chamber pots through a small opening.
Virtually every large town across France, Italy, Spain, Germany, England, and Greece had an anchorite. In many areas, there were more females than males. A woman’s life in the Middle Ages was severely bound, and to become an anchorite, unburdened by social strictures or domestic toil, may have felt paradoxically emancipating. Scholars have called anchorites the progenitors of modern feminism.
Pursuers are the most modern type of hermits. Rather than fleeing society, like protesters, or living beholden to higher powers, like pilgrims, pursuers seek alone time for artistic freedom, scientific insight, or deeper self-understanding. Thoreau went to Walden to journey within, to explore “the private sea, the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of one’s being.”
An endless list of writers and painters and philosophers and scientists have been described as hermits, including Charles Darwin, Thomas Edison, Emily Brontë, and Vincent van Gogh. Herman Melville, the author of Moby-Dic
k, largely withdrew from public life for thirty years. “All profound things,” he wrote, “are preceded and attended by Silence.” Flannery O’Connor rarely left her rural farm in Georgia. Albert Einstein referred to himself as a “loner in daily life.”
The American essayist William Deresiewicz wrote that “no real excellence, personal or social, artistic, philosophical, scientific, or moral, can arise without solitude.” The historian Edward Gibbon said that “solitude is the school of genius.” Plato, Descartes, Kierkegaard, and Kafka have all been described as solitaries. “Not till we have lost the world,” wrote Thoreau, “do we begin to find ourselves.”
“Thoreau,” said Chris Knight, offering his appraisal of the great transcendentalist, “was a dilettante.”
Perhaps he was. Thoreau spent two years and two months, starting in 1845, at his cabin on Walden Pond in Massachusetts. He socialized in the town of Concord. He often dined with his mother. “I had more visitors while I lived in the woods than at any other period in my life,” he wrote. One dinner party at his place numbered twenty guests.
While Knight lived in the woods, he didn’t think of himself as a hermit—he never put a label on who he was—but when speaking of Thoreau, he used a particular phrase. Knight said that Thoreau was not a “true hermit.”
Thoreau’s biggest sin may have been publishing Walden. Knight said that writing a book, packaging one’s thoughts into a commodity, is not something a true hermit would do. Nor is hosting a party or hobnobbing in town. These actions are directed outward, toward society. They all shout, in some way, “Here I am!”
Yet almost every hermit communicates with the outside world. Following the Tao Te Ching, so many protester hermits in China wrote poems—including poet-monks known as Cold Mountain, Pickup, Big Shield, and Stonehouse—that the genre was given its own name, shan-shui.
Saint Anthony was one of the first Desert Fathers, and the inspiration for thousands of Christian hermits who followed. Around A.D. 270, Anthony moved into an empty tomb in Egypt, where he stayed alone for more than a decade. He then lived in an abandoned fort for twenty years more, subsisting only on bread, salt, and water delivered by attendants, sleeping on the bare ground, never bathing, devoting his life to intense and often agonizing piety.
According to his biographer, Saint Athanasius of Alexandria, who met with him in person, Anthony ended his retreat with a pure soul and would go to heaven. But for much of his time in the desert, the biography adds, Anthony was inundated by parishioners seeking counsel. “The crowds,” Anthony said, “do not permit me to be alone.”
Even the anchorites, locked up by themselves for life, were not separate from medieval society. Their cells were often in town, and most had a window through which they counseled visitors. People realized that speaking with a sympathetic anchorite could be more soothing than praying to a remote and unflinching God. Anchorites gained widespread fame as sages, and for several centuries, much of the population of Europe discussed great matters of life and death with hermits.
In the forest, Knight never snapped a photo, had no guests over for dinner, and did not write a sentence. His back was fully turned to the world. None of the hermit categories fit him properly. There was no clear why. Something he couldn’t quite feel had tugged him away from the world with the persistence of gravity. He was one of the longest-enduring solitaries, and among the most fervent as well. Christopher Knight was a true hermit.
“I can’t explain my actions,” he said. “I had no plans when I left, I wasn’t thinking of anything. I just did it.”
14
Knight actually did have a plan. Or maybe it was the opposite of a plan. Regardless, he had a goal: to get lost. Not just lost to the rest of the world but actually lost in the woods by himself. He carried only rudimentary camping supplies, a few articles of clothing, and a little food. “I had what I had,” he said, “and nothing more.” He left the keys in the car and vanished into the forest.
It’s not that easy to get lost. Anyone with basic outdoor skills generally knows which way they’re going. The sun burns west across the sky, and from there it’s natural to set the other directions. Knight knew that he was heading south. He said he didn’t make a conscious decision but felt pulled like a homing pigeon. “There was no depth or substance to the idea. It was at the instinctual level. It’s instinct among animals to return to home territory, and my home ground, where I was born and raised, was that way.”
Maine is partitioned into a series of long north-south valleys, the geologic clawmark left by glaciers surging and retreating. Separating the valleys are strings of mountains, now weather-worn and bald-topped like old men, but only a couple of dozen million years ago the Appalachians were mightier than the Rockies. The valley floors at the time of year when Knight arrived were a summer soup of ponds and wetlands and bogs.
“I kept largely to the ridges,” Knight said, “and sometimes crossed swamps going from one ridge to another.” He worked his way along crumbled slopes and muddy taiga. “Soon I lost track of where I was. I didn’t care.” Virtually every natural feature in Maine, pond to peak, has a proper name, but Knight saw such titles as human impositions and preferred not to know them. He sought a purity to his retreat beyond all measure. “There were no signs saying, ‘You are here.’ It was either dry land or wet land. I knew where I was but I didn’t know where I was. Oh, I’m getting all metaphysical here, aren’t I?”
He was unfettered by the rules of society, king of his own jungle, and alone and lost in the forest—a quilt of dreams and nightmares both. Knight mostly liked it. He’d camp in one spot for a week or so, then head south yet again. “I kept going,” he said. “I was content in the choice I had made.”
Content except for one thing: food. He was hungry, and he really didn’t know how he’d feed himself. His departure was a confounding mix of incredible commitment and complete lack of forethought, not all that abnormal for a twenty-year-old. It was as if he went camping for the weekend and didn’t come home for a quarter century. He was an able hunter and angler, but he carried neither a gun nor a rod. He didn’t want to die, at least not then.
His idea was to “forage” for food. The wilds of Maine are enchanting to behold and monumentally broad, though not generous. There are no fruit trees. Berries sometimes have a weekend-long season. Without hunting or trapping or fishing, you’re going to starve. Knight worked his way south, eating very little, until paved roads appeared. He found a road-killed partridge, but did not possess a stove or a way to easily start a fire, so he ate it raw. Neither a tasty meal nor a hearty one, and a good way to get sick.
He passed houses with gardens. Knight was raised with rigid morals and a great deal of pride. You make do on your own, always. No handouts or government assistance, ever. You know what’s right and what’s wrong, and the dividing line is usually clear.
But try not eating for ten days—nearly everyone’s restraints will be eroded. Hunger is hard to ignore. “It took a while to overcome my scruples,” Knight said, but as soon as his scruples fell, he snapped off a few ears of corn, dug up some potatoes, and ate a couple of green vegetables.
One time, during his first weeks away, he spent the night in an unoccupied cabin. It was a miserable experience. “The stress of that, the sleepless worry about getting caught, programmed me not to do that again.” He never slept indoors after that, not once, no matter how cold or rainy the weather.
He continued moving south, picking through gardens, and eventually reached a region with a familiar distribution of trees, a diversity of birdcalls and bugs he recognized, and a temperature range he felt accustomed to. It had been colder up north. He wasn’t sure precisely where he was, but he knew it was home ground. It turned out that he was less than thirty miles, as the crow flies, from his childhood home.
He came upon a pair of lakes, one large and one small, with cabins all around and plenty of small gardens offering easy snacking. Knight hoped to stay awhile, but there seemed to be no good place
to camp, nothing offering both comfort and seclusion.
In the early days of his escape, nearly everything Knight learned was through trial and error, with the great hope that no error would end his seclusion. He had been gifted with a good head for figuring out workable solutions to complicated problems. All his skills, from the rigging of tarps to rainwater filtration to walking through the forest without leaving tracks, went through multiple versions and were never considered perfect. Tinkering with his systems was one of Knight’s hobbies.
For a while, he tried living in a riverbank. The bank was tall and steep, and the stream offered a nice trickling soundscape. With a stolen shovel, Knight tunneled deep into the bank, reinforcing the walls and ceilings with scavenged wood, so that the dwelling resembled an old mine shaft. It wasn’t acceptable. He was basically living in a hole, cold and damp, with hardly enough room to sit up. It was well camouflaged, but the forest around the cave offered far too easy walking. And, indeed, the spot was eventually discovered by deer hunters, long after Knight had abandoned it. The cave became a pilgrimage site for locals seeking answers to the hermit legend, though no one was sure if it had actually been constructed by him, or even if there was a hermit at all.
Knight tried at least six other places in the area, over a span of several months, without satisfaction. Finally he stumbled upon a region of nasty, boulder-choked woods without so much as a game trail running through it, far too harsh for hikers. He’d found the Jarsey, and he liked it immediately. Then he discovered the elephant rocks with the hidden opening. “I knew at once it was ideal. So I settled in.”
He still remained hungry. He wanted more than vegetables, and even if he did stick with gardens, the Maine summer, as every local knows, is that rare lovely guest who leaves your house early. Once it ended, Knight understood, for the next eight months the gardens and cornfields would lay fallow beyond snacking.
The Stranger in the Woods Page 7