On Christmas Day of 2023, I was in a Forest Service cabin somewhere in Colorado, trying to keep warm while tending a fire. A good friend of mine—a local Coloradoan—and I skinned up some 6.5 miles to a cabin with plans to ski a nearby ridge. But the weather had different plans. Howling 50+ mph winds blew the snow off the mountain face we planned to ski, and -15F weather kept us inside.
I expected to leave with epic photos of powder turns. Instead, I left with an idea from Thoreau that haunts me to this day.
We were off the grid with the whole day ahead of us. Our main goal was to keep the fire in the wood stove rolling—splitting wood and fanning the flames. Once the cabin warmed up enough to feel our fingers, we fired up the wood-burning cookstove in the kitchen to heat the soup we hauled up with us.
Built in the 1860s, the log cabin was a rustic mansion for the two of us. The main floor had a kitchen and a living area with some chairs wrapped around the woodstove. The upstairs featured a cold bedroom with two full beds. There was an outhouse a few yards from the cabin. The building was once an old station house for railway workers, located on the highest mountain railway pass in the United States. At one point, some 150 people lived in this area, servicing the steam engines that traveled through. The few log buildings were all abandoned now, except for us, and slowly enveloping in a swelling snow drift. Frigid wind and specs of frost whistled through the door frame and windowpanes.
Despite the arctic scene through the frosted single-pane windows, the old cabin felt warm inside. The living space possessed the character expected in a Forest Service cabin—well cared for, with trinkets, quotes, and writings left by previous cabin dwellers. There were quotes from Muir, Emerson, and others pinned to a corkboard. A poster on the wall outlined how to assess avalanche danger with guidance on decision-making. A bookshelf near the wood stove was half stocked with books, puzzles, and board games. I looked through the books and found one left and signed by ski legend Warren Miller himself. Even Warren Miller came to this cabin to shred! We were in the right place, but we wouldn’t be taking any epic Warren Miller-esque turns this trip.
The remaining books left by previous visitors were haphazardly stacked on the shelves, like a line of dominos frozen mid-collapse. Among the chaos were dated joke books with yellowing pages, a Stephen King horror novel, a couple of Agatha Christie mystery novels, and a copy of Staying Alive in Avalanche Terrain. But what caught my eye was a well-worn book on the shelf. It was a copy of Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. I knew of Henry David Thoreau. I knew of Walden. But neither the author nor the book was on my neglected “to-read list.”
I grabbed Walden from the shelf, sat down by the fire, and quickly dove into Thoreau’s world. I was hooked from the first page—this man is living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere—just like us. Thoreau, however, hand-built his isolated cabin and spent two years and two months living in it. We were only spending two nights.
I read through the first pages and was immediately intrigued as Thoreau, it felt, was speaking directly to my current situation. He even commented on the fire that was keeping me warm: “Man has invented, not only houses, but clothes and cooked food; and possibly from the accidental discovery of the warmth of fire, and the consequent use of it, at first a luxury, arose the present necessity to sit by it.” I was sitting by the fire. Tell me more. He quotes German scientist Justus von Liebig saying “man’s body is a stove, and food the fuel which keeps up the internal combustion…” The heat is in us. We just need food, shelter, and clothing to retain our internal heat. I paused and looked at the fire, and I decided against throwing another log in. I put on another layer. I kept reading.
I read on as Thoreau digs at the excess of humankind—how modern man lives beyond his immediate needs and unnecessary extravagance. All in the first dozen pages. This man was speaking directly to me. I had been trying to simplify my life over the past years and move away from materialism (hence my staying in a cabin far from other humans on Christmas Day). Thoreau beautifully eviscerates the material man. The man who wants more. The man of comforts. The man of greed. The man I do not want to be, but know I still am.
I read on until I came upon one sentence that stood out from the page. Words I read multiple times. Words that still haunt me.
It wasn’t the famous quote, “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.” When I read this line and the context of Walden, I felt that the quote is often misused. It is vague, yes, and open to interpretation. However, the desperation Thoreau is speaking of, I feel, is not because people have unfulfilled dreams, lead boring lives, or have untapped potential. It is not because they live in poverty or are depressed. Desperation, I believe Thoreau is trying to convey, is when societal expectations, such as financial security or material possessions, are engrained in our subconscious minds and distract us from living a more spiritual life. If this is what was meant, then yes, Thoreau is right. Most men do live in lives of desperation.
It is up for interpretation as to what Thoreau means by this famous line, and I do not want to do a disservice by trying to dissect it with my views.
The line that stood out to me is later in the text. This one line adds practical context to his ideas. It is more personal. It is a real example. And it is to the point:
“The spending of the best part of one’s life earning money to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first, so that he might return to England and live the life of a poet.”
“He should of gone up garret at once,” Thoreau continues, speaking about the man. I wondered what a garret was, and I did not have a dictionary in the cabin, but a garret is an attic—and Thoreau is saying that this man should have headed up to that dusty desk in the attic and started writing poetry immediately. Instead, he delayed this pursuit. He set a prerequisite of financial security before pursuing this passion for poetry.
Thoreau was telling me that many spend their lives making money to provide financial security. The concept of financial security is imposed by societal norms and securing what Thoreau deems necessary of life. Thoreau defines necessary of life as things that have become so important to human life that few, except those in poverty or for philosophical reasons, go without.
For Thoreau, at the time of writing Walden, what he deemed necessary of life beyond basic food, shelter, and clothing are tools like a knife and axe, and given his vocation, a lamp, stationary, and some books. It was all he needed to pursue his calling, and he could obtain it at a negligible cost. The contemporary person in the 1850s likely had a much longer list of what is necessary for life, including owning a horse, a carriage, a cast-iron stove, a pocket watch, kerosene lamps, and the list goes on. But Thoreau was trying to bear down on the necessities.
This got me thinking of what is considered necessary of life for the modern American: vehicles, electricity, internet access, a cell phone, a computer, a washing machine, a refrigerator, insurance, the list goes on. This is what societal expectations in the modern world have made necessary of life, and only a few, as Thoreau notes, go without—those in poverty, or those that do so for their philosophical reasons, such as the Amish, for example. The list of what is necessary of life isn’t necessarily longer than in the 1850s when Thoreau penned Walden, though the items we regard necessary have changed.
And while Thoreau would argue much of what society deems necessary of life is excess, obtaining the things necessary for life is considered responsible.
We set expectations of what necessary of life looks like. For one American, they can have food, shelter, clothing, and all that is deemed necessary of life, including access to transportation, internet, etc., for $1,000 per month. They will have multiple roommates, use public transportation, and be frugal with spending on food. Whereas for another, they may acquire the same basic things, but they believe what is necessary of life is to own their own vehicle, a budget for entertainment, and a spacious home, but at a higher cost of $4,000 per month. For some, they need $10,000 per month, or more.
It is a common belief that once we work to secure the items necessary of life, then we can finally enjoy liberty. Thoreau expands on this with another example of someone else who travels to a far-off place for work and “devotes themselves to a trade for ten to twenty years, so that they may live,–that is keep comfortably warm,–and die in New England at last.”
Thoreau is saying that many people travel far away from their ideal life, where their hearts long to be, to secure what they perceive is necessary of life. The average modern American is not spending years traveling to far-off places, far from their home and ideals to earn money, though some do. It is more common that the modern human travels far away from their ideals, not physically, but mentally, to the land of the cubicle, home office, workshop, storefront, or job site for decades. They may be able to come home to their family at night, but are they not also on a journey to achieve an outcome of wealth and the security to provide what is necessary of life? And then, finally, there is time to pursue one’s calling or passion. Is this not the same as the man who travels on a merchant ship to India to build a nest of money before he can work on what his heart is telling him to do?
However one does it, many focus on obtaining what is necessary of life before living their ideals. Thoreau got me thinking, that day in the cabin, about how we postpone our ideals.
The common story is saving money to obtain the items necessary of life so that one can enjoy more hedonistic pursuits, or as Thoreau refers to, “…the games and amusement of mankind.” He continues, that for these folks, “There is no play in them, for this comes after work.” The money they save working is used to cover their necessities, and the rest is spent on material interests. Money is saved to quit working and buy a dream boat, move to a lake house, build that pool, or buy that golf membership—things to entertain themselves. Things that make them comfortable. Obtaining material possessions is the prerequisite to what they feel is the good life they have worked so hard to achieve.
This group is the man who travels to India to build a fortune so that they can return to comfortably die in New England. They have worked to achieve comfort in their final years of freedom. Perhaps with a hot tub, a new camper, a minibar, and a golf membership.
I do not envy this group of people, and I do not feel this group is missing out on a higher calling. They are on a quest for most of their adult lives to return to the state of an infant, surrounded by comforts and play toys.
The following groups, however, I feel are unfortunate.
One that I see quite often are those who must be financially secure to take their next ideal steps in life. This is my friend who always wanted to become a father but feels they are not financially secure enough to have a family. He makes well enough to cover his food, shelter, clothing, and the items necessary of life and support a family. Some societal expectation was engrained in this man’s mind that he must achieve a certain quality of what is necessary of life to have a family of his own.
And as in Thoreau’s example, there is the individual who feels the need to achieve financial security as a prerequisite to the pursuit of a vocation society may consider extracurricular or a hobby, such as the arts, philosophy, or philanthropy. They need to acquire what is necessary of life through a “real job” first and foremost. They must have security pursuing something that does not offer financial returns—a banker who works his whole life so that one day he may finally have the time to pursue his true calling as a carpenter.
This group is our merchant that travels to trade with India to be financially secure before considering becoming a poet. They work to obtain security so that they can then pursue a vocation that is not considered financially secure. This is truly unfortunate, and I believe as Thoreau does, they should have gone up garret at once.
But the group I find most troubling are those that put off contributing to a societal cause. They put off a life of social work, volunteering, or advocating for a cause they are passionate about because they feel they must be financially secure, or have some status, to do so. They feel they do not have enough money in the bank to have an impact. This is the person who is passionate about curbing distracted driving and saving lives, perhaps due to an accident close to home, but they do not feel they have the financial means to incite any change. They accept the status quo and hope someone else will tackle change. They believe someone else with more influence will take up the cause, and maybe they can support it when they are more financially stable. A life pursuing social causes is risky, and financially irresponsible, they tell themselves.
I am a member of this group.
I think of the man traveling to India, and I, like many others, am also currently on a merchant ship, traveling to India. Loaded with silver to sell and trade for profit. Perhaps I am somewhere in the Bay of Bengal, fighting the winds of a cyclone, or fighting off mutiny of my conscious, determined to make it to port and unlade my cargo. Then, I may be able to make enough money to return home with the security to pursue my ideals.
I have traveled abroad to China for work, in pursuit of money, which did lead to more savings than needed to cover what is necessary of life. But that was not enough, I have decided to keep traveling, though not physically. These travels to India are mostly unrelated to what I am truly passionate about, in my heart. I often tell myself I can save money in business and then later have enough money to make a worthwhile impact on the causes I truly care about.
Is this true? Is it not possible to do both at the same time?
Could not the merchant practice writing poetry while at sea? Or even find inspiration from his exotic travels to enhance his poetry and write something greater than it would have been had he not? He would then have financial security and be a great poet!
The haunt of Thoreau tells me to go up garret at once. But I am on the sea on my way to India.
Cover photo: The Star of India in a bottle, purchased from the San Diego Maritime Museum. Photograph by Owen, February 2025