The Human Connection I Needed on My Solo Sedona Trip

When I planned my trip to Sedona, I waffled back and forth on what I wanted that weekend to be. I felt a call to make it a solo writing retreat, but that felt lonely. I gently threw out the invite to others, but then would feel resistance to sharing the experience.

When the week came, I headed out to the desert alone.

I was a mix of hesitant and excited to retreat from the world and be with my own company. It was Halloween weekend, and a full moon, so there would be no lack of social gatherings and ceremonies tempting me. I set the intention to be open to connections and events if the right one came along.

Immediately after driving into the vortex of red rocks, the universe blocked all options for connection. The few people I knew there were gone, every coffee shop I chose seemed to be empty, and my Airbnb had terrible cell service, and equally terrible wifi.

So I leaned in.

I hiked for hours with nothing but the sounds of the stream next to me and the stream of thoughts in my mind.

I wrote stories on my private patio.

I picked up fresh foods and ate them in the privacy of my backyard garden.

I went to bed embarrassingly early.

On my last day, though, I reached the level of personal recharge that I had been hoping for. I found myself trying to strike up longer-than-desired trail conversations with passersby and asking too-deep-and-personal questions to baristas. Clearly, I was craving connection.

My go-to place to arrive alone and meet a friend is a brewery. The culture that surrounds beer is usually chill, nonpretentious, and an IPA induced jovialness.

When only one brewery, Sedona Beer Company, popped up in my Google search of the area, I wasted no time picking a place. They were advertising live music that afternoon, so I was ready for a good time.

The brewery was a humble wooden structure with saloon-style front doors.

As I walked in, I had to hold back some sadistic laughter. The place was empty, aside from one small group of 50-something year olds at a corner table, signing their check.

I was too exposed to leave, having already smiled at the bartender whose eyes pleaded silently for my business.

So I ordered my beer, an amber ale, perfect for the fall afternoon, and headed outside. The patio was sprawling with empty tables and unlit fire pits.

I was alone again, aside from the musician, who was not playing. I guess he wasn’t interested in performing for the straggler birds munching crumbs from the pavement floor.

Not quite the live music sunday-funday patio party I had imagined.

But I was committed. When I settled in and made it clear I was here to stay, the musician stood up and tuned his guitar.

I learned that his name was Carl. He was an older Irish man, sporting black boots, tight jeans and an oversized black t-shirt with a psychedelic red design on it. He had shoulder length hair and wore his dark sunglasses in the shade. It made him appear like a past-his-prime rock star, not wanting to be recognized on the street. Carl’s music matched his look- heavy on the guitar, psychedelic loops, and a gritty voice.

I was settling into this slightly awkward experience, being serenaded by this musician alone. And I was coming to accept that this weekend would be shared with only myself.

Then, another man came out to join us.

He appeared to be about 70, wearing ripped jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, a hippie type. He came straight up to me, introduced himself as Michael, and asked if he could join me since I had the only table in the sun.

I welcomed him to my table, curious to where this would go.

The lovely thing about older people is they don’t feel the same pressure to chit chat just for the sake of it.

So we sat there silently for a while, enjoying Carl’s vibes as we turned our faces to the sun, absorbing the last of the day’s vitamin D.

Between songs, Michael turned to me and said:

“Sometimes it all hits right: the right sunrise, or sunset, or song.”

I found this touching and responded:

“Or the right combination of those, with a good beer.”

He smiled at me approvingly, as if he was using this line to test my worthiness to hold a conversation with. I guess I passed because he began to ask me about the music, and what kind I normally listened to.

I shared some of my favorites and learned that his go-to artists were the Beatles and Seal, which I thought was a peculiar combination.

“But I don’t consume music in any digital form,” he told me. “It’s become too much a part of capitalism, a commodity. When I was growing up, music was created to change lives, to start movements, it wasn’t just for the money.”

I appreciated this point of view, considering how much music is made solely on what sound will sell. I wondered what the Beatles had gotten him through, or what movement Seal started within him.

We tuned back into Carl, who appeared to be settling into having a crowd of two.

In between the next songs, Michael and I’s conversation continued and I learned more about him: How he moved to Sedona during the pandemic, to get away from the chaos of San Francisco. How he had just started to dabble with edibles, and accidentally took a 10mg and was high for days.

We were now laughing as if we were old friends. Maybe we had met before, in another life. Maybe our souls had not crossed paths in hundreds of years and now they were, even though in this life we came from two different times.

We got deeper, perhaps carried by the depth of Carl’s soundtrack, which was now taking a Celtic rock turn.

Michael confessed to me that he recently had the realization, with the help of some magic mushrooms, that he wasn’t living up to his potential.

The persona I had created for Michael thus far was that he was totally carefree. A retired man giving up on any ideas of fulfilling potential and trading that for a life of sipping pale ales in the breeze. But his vulnerability was refreshing.

I too, had this realization throughout my weekend alone. The thought that there was so much I was holding myself back from, so many dreams I could achieve if I only believed in myself, or did more.

Hearing Michael, 40 years my senior, share the same sentiments, made me consider how long this journey of life is.

If we want to continue to grow, this striving for our potential will never go away. And that’s part of being human. I had been feeling so rushed to figure out where I was going, and to arrive at that fulfilled potential. Now I felt compelled to slow down, to remember to enjoy the journey and that the finish line doesn’t exist for this race.

As the sun went down and the dry desert frigidness blanketed us, it was time to leave.

Michael invited me to share a bowl of soup at a local Thai spot, but I politely declined, knowing I wanted my last night to be in solitude once again.

He had given me lots to think about before I made my journey back to high speed life in LA.

This interaction with Michael was my only social connection of the trip, and it was the only one that I needed.