I was breathing hard.  And the temperature was dropping quickly.  But I was happy sitting in my Crazy Creek chair covered with my thick down sleeping bag.  Three days’ walk from the nearest road, I sank into mindless contentment with my trashy paperback.

It was New Year’s Eve and there was a fair amount of activity around base camp.  As the voices drifted in and out, I heard Zeb complain that the Internet was down.

The Internet?

We were deep in the Andes.  In a desolate landscape. At 14,000 feet.  Who brought the Internet and why was it here?

One of the great joys for me of journeying out on the edge is being out of touch.  Off the grid.

My everyday life is tied to my computer.  My BlackBerry goes everywhere with me. I am on the phone.  Non-stop.

When I go to the mountains, I go for the quiet and the solitude.  I go to “get away from it all.” One of the most exciting moments for me as I begin any trip is creating my “away” message on my phone:  “I’m away.  I don’t have access to voice mail or email.  Don’t bother leaving a message.”

When I first journeyed into the Great Ranges nearly 20 years ago, the Internet was in its infancy. Cell phones looked like shoe boxes.  Radio coverage was spotty.  If I wanted to communicate with the outside world, I would hand off a letter to an expedition going out.  Maybe the letter would get there.  And maybe not.

Traveling to third world countries even 10 years ago, I would have to search out an Internet “cafe” if I wanted to send a message.  In villages, there would be computers with old 8088 processors that would batch their emails.  And then send them out once a day.  Or maybe once a week.  Or maybe not at all!

Of course  I’ve watched the creep occur.  I’ve even participated in it.  As technology has evolved, all of us have relied on it to provide us with access to weather information.  With satellite availability, it was a small step to emergency communication.  And another small step to staying in touch with the fam back home.  And another small step to keeping your sponsors and friends and fans up to date.  And blogging and Twitter and Facebook.

And why was it that we came out here again?

If we “can’t get away from it all,”  if we can’t go “off the grid,”  how do we renew our souls?

It seems like we as a society have lost our capacity for solitude.  My 16 year old son can’t go more than a minute and a half – literally – without texting.  The head banging music at my gym causes me to think about putting Grey Goose in my Nalgene. We’ve been in restaurants and waiting rooms and even department store check-out lines where a television runs non-stop whether anyone is watching it or not.

We seem to need the “input” to feel alive. We are uncomfortable with quiet.

I am re-reading The Genesee Diary, a book I first read nearly 30 years ago.  It resonates even more deeply for me today.

The author Henri Nouwen was a professor, prolific writer and much in-demand public speaker. Feeling burned out by his schedule, Nouwen went to live for seven months in a Trappist Monastery.  In the process of planning this time “off the grid,” he struggled with with the bind in which so many of us find ourselves:  between wanting and needing solitude on the one hand, and wanting and needing to feel alive in our skin on the other.

He writes, “When I took a closer look at this I realized that that I was caught in a web of strange paradoxes.  While complaining about too many demands, I felt uneasy when none were made. While speaking about the burden of letter writing, an empty mailbox made me sad.  While fretting about tiring lecture tours, I felt disappointed when there were no invitations.  While speaking nostalgically about an empty desk, I feared the day on which that would come true.  In short, while desiring to be alone, I was frightened of being left alone.   The more I became aware of these paradoxes, the more I started to see how much I had indeed fallen in love with my own compulsions and illusions, and how much I needed to step back and wonder, ‘Is there a quiet stream underneath the fluctuating affirmations and rejections of my little world? Is there a still point where my life is anchored and from which I can reach out with hope and courage and confidence?'”

“Hello darkness, my old friend.  I’ve come to talk with you again.” The Sound of Silence, the song that propelled Simon and Garfunkel to stardom, was a favorite of mine. But the ability to touch the dark and silent places has become harder and harder.

With the creep of the grid, it is more important than ever to seek out – and to carve out – those moments of solitude – the places of quiet – that re-create us.

I’m going to work harder at leaving the BlackBerry behind.