To some of my friends, it made no sense at all. To others, it made perfect sense.

Why would a happily (well, mostly happily) married 60-year-old decide to travel solo to Chamonix, France, to hike in the Alps? Then again, why wouldn’t she?

Ever since my daughter visited Chamonix while she was in college, I’ve been intrigued with this tiny ski village located in a valley in France, snuggled up against the borders of Italy and Switzerland, in the shadow of the famous Mont Blanc. In the summer, it’s a mecca for trail runners, hiker, climbers.

I kept reading and hearing about the trend of solo travel—especially for women. I’d been traveling solo for years—mostly in the U.S., and mostly by accident. In an earlier season of my life, I traveled to speak at events and retreats around the country. I’d always tack on an extra day or two at the end of my travels to explore a city or even just take a solitary retreat of my own.

A few years ago, I went with my kids and husband to Italy. I purposely booked my flight a couple of days before my family so I could explore Venice on my own. I did the same thing when I traveled to Ireland with a friend, and England with my daughter. So I’d done some mini solo excursions.

But Chamonix was different. I longed to do a week there on my own—staying in town but taking day hikes around the valley. I felt an insistent tug to explore the Alps. Some people like to shop or take tours or lay on a beach when they travel. But I wanted to hike.

My husband is not a hiker, and I knew he would not enjoy a vacation that consisted of walking up and down steep hills for several hours each day.

I was both intrigued and scared about going solo. And I thought—maybe I’ll do that someday. Maybe next year.

But then, it kind of hit me: next year, I won’t be more fit for hiking. I won’t be younger. I won’t have more money. Who knows what could happen in a year?

And I looked around. One friend was having meniscus surgery, another broke her knee. Another friend was fighting cancer.

And I thought: someday is now.

Right now, I am fit, healthy, can afford this trip and have the time to do it.

I booked my ticket. And then told my husband I was going. “By yourself?” he asked.

I told a few people I was thinking about it, and pretty soon, a few friends were talking about joining me. I was like, sure, why not? One even booked a ticket and reserved an apartment in town for us. Then she broke her foot and couldn’t go.

The others couldn’t commit to a week in September, and so I was back to solo—and while I’m so sorry my friend broke her foot, and it would have been great to have companions, I was excited to be going on my own. I had a plane ticket (purchased with points) and a reasonably priced place to stay, and I wasn’t about to cancel. I’d read a lot about solo travel, and I was curious. And a little nervous.

I’m a big planner when it comes to travel. I had a spreadsheet. I printed out directions for various hikes. I read articles on what to do in Chamonix in summer, although my trip was in the shoulder season, which made it much less crowded. I studied the map of Chamonix, and realized the village is actually small, quaint and easy to navigate. I watched approximately 200 YouTube videos from travel vloggers who showed me various hikes and trails. I talked to a friend who’d recently hiked the Trail du Mont Blanc. (Two of my top StrengthsFinders are “Learner” and “Input” which serves me well when it comes to travel.)

I downloaded DuoLingo and started practicing French (which I don’t speak), using that and Google translate to figure out how to say basic phrases.

I also prepared physically. I’m pretty fit for my age. I run 20 miles a week or more. I walk every day. I stretched my long runs, added more walking (including finding whatever hills I could here in the Midwest) and visits to the gym. I trained for this trip as if it were a race.

On the trails of Chamonix, I often encountered people older than myself, hiking along the steep, rocky paths as if they were strolling through the park. I loved this.

But most importantly, I experienced joy. When my daughter looked at my photos (I’ll be sharing them over the next week or two on my Instagram) she said, “You look so happy in all of these.” Which was a truth I had to examine: why did a week on my own bring me such contentment and joy?

I wore this silly grin all week.

My little apartment, a third-floor walkup above an organic grocery store just off the main street, was perfect. Some days, I hiked to a chalet or refuge and purchased lunch. Other days, I brought my own lunch by visiting the little shop around the corner and purchasing a “sandwich de refuge,” which was a length of French bread stuffed with prosciutto, ham and cheese—amazing and filling, and notably, not soaked in mayonnaise. It cost just five euros and it fit easily in my pack. Packed in next to my cold water, it stayed fresh all day.

Despite the fact it wasn’t high season, I saw plenty of people, both in town and out on the trails. People were friendly, offering a simple “Bonjour!” as they passed on the trails.

The freedom of solo travel exhilarates me. I wake up when I want, plan my day as I wish. I sometimes meet people, and sometimes don’t. But there were no committee meetings about what we’d do each day, as there tend to be when you travel with a group. There was no having to consult or accommodate for anyone else.

As I said, I’m a planner. I had a variety of hikes planned, but flexed according to the weather and how achy my legs were. But I didn’t have to be the tour guide for other people. I had no one to corral out the door except myself. I didn’t need to feed anyone except myself. I just said, “Ready to go?” and I replied “Yep.” There was no one saying, “Just a minute, I need to first…” or “How far is this hike?” or “Where are my hiking boots?” As long as I didn’t complain, there was no one complaining, no one I had to tend to.

I hiked for several hours each day, I rode the cable car to the top of the world, I saw glaciers, I cooled my sweaty face in mountain streams. I stood and just stared at Mont Blanc in amazement. I got coffee, or gelato, or a beer, when I wanted to. I ate when I was hungry and didn’t if I wasn’t.

In wandering, we run into ourselves, and God. Sitting on a rock, gazing at the Alps, I felt a gentle presence of the Spirit that I haven’t felt in a long while. I felt welcomed by the town—people in a tourist town are friendly. I also felt capable. Even with my very limited French, I can figure out how to buy postcard stamps, catch the bus, order coffee, and find the bathrooms.

In many ways, I’ve been “training” spiritually and emotionally for this trip for a long time. I’ve explored museums and neighborhoods in my hometown of Chicago by myself. I’m comfortable with myself—hiking alone, eating alone, just relaxing and reading a book or writing in my journal by myself. Because I don’t have much talent for small talk, and the thoughts in my head are interesting. I like watching people and wondering about their stories, but I also feel quite comfortable just hanging out by myself.

Walking by the Arve River in Chamonix valley

Most of all, I like making adventures part of my own story. I want to live a meaningful and interesting story. Maybe you do too.

If that’s you, I hope you’ll click over and read my new Substack that explores the intersection of hospitality and travel, called Welcoming and Wandering. Subscribe for free and read it here. I’ll be writing about welcoming (hospitality and how that’s shaped me and my family) and wandering (travel and how that shapes us). Both of these practices expand our world, grow our understanding, connect us with others and with God.

I’m curating a day-by-day album of my trip on Instagram, with specific hikes and tips, should you be curious or even considering a trip to Chamonix.