All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.
― Mary Oliver
Selection from
Swan: Poems and Prose Poems
The outdoors and I haven’t always been on good terms.
When I was eight, I was taken on a camping trip to Wallowa Lake, Ore. I remember good moments: swimming and playing in the sandy beach, a particularly bold buck walking up to our picnic table during lunch, trying to bum a free meal… But what I remember most was the twelve foot tall, oppressive chain link fence bisecting the crowded campground, the frigid, filthy cement bathroom, and the pervasive cold humidity that kept my clothes damp and gave me a searing rash across my crotch and inner thighs for the entire trip and for days after we returned.
When I was ten, family friends took me on a camping trip to Mount St. Helens. I wish I could say I remember the trip fondly – the scenic drive from Northern Idaho, the fissured vista around the volcano covered with bright splotches of Indian Paintbrush and Purple Penstemon – but, in reality, what I left with was the enduring memory of repeated chiding to stay on the path, don’t run through the campground, don’t touch the ash, and catch up.
The inhospitable feeling was solidified on the trip home when we stopped for one last hike. The van pulled into the gravel parking lot at the base of the trail and I stumbled out gripping a bag containing water, a tiny pair of binoculars, and three small guidebooks: one of native plants and flowers, one of birds, and one of bugs. I wasn’t thrilled by the line of sweat already forming along my hairline and under my ballcap, but I was looking forward to identifying whatever was hiding on the winding trail disappearing up into the trees.
It was a short-lived fantasy. The group hit a switchback and the adult leading glanced down to see me squatting at the edge of the trail, palms pressed into the dirt, face inches away from a cluster of tiny pink flowers.
Trillium at Idlers Rest Nature Preserve, Idaho, April 2021
“Come on, hurry up, we have to make it to the top.” he called.
After I disappeared two more times, he went from leading the group to following behind to keep me from vanishing altogether. The fun was gone. The only goal was to make the summit as quickly as possible. Fallen trees and ginormous boulders were beckoning me to scrape and scrabble up them, but there was no time for me to steal with the drill sergeant following up the rear.
My lungs and legs burned and I slowed before finally stopping. Angry, embarrassed, and on the verge of tears, I flopped onto a stump and told the leader I wasn’t going to make it. So, rather than fight me, the group left me at the two-thirds mark while they continued up the trail. When they came back, the other kids whooped and gloated about the view I had missed. I insisted I didn’t care – it wouldn’t have been worth the pain it caused. But even the girl in our group who was diabetic and constantly on the verge of passing out from low blood sugar had made it to the top. The rest of the day was spent with my head pressed to the window of the van, disappointed and humiliated, not seeing the world pass by.
It was decided. I hated nature and it hated me too. I ended the trip with the idea that the only way to be outdoors was if it involved a crummy campground, a short timeline, and a lot of pain.
Seventeen years later, I was a fresh college graduate at the end of a long term relationship. I needed somewhere to go that wasn’t my job, my empty apartment, or the public places in my small town where I was likely to bump into my ex. I headed out to the local trails.
I drove to Kamiak Butte in Washington State, and stepped out of the car feeling more than a little silly in my black pleather knee-high boots and skinny jeans. I pocketed my phone, wedged my notebook into the calf of my boot, grabbed my water bottle and set off. I was in the best shape I’d been in for a long time, rocking a post-breakup body and fitting into clothes I hadn’t worn in years. Even so, I had no intention of reaching the top of the butte, fully believing that I was incapable of it. Even being in comparably good shape I had to stop to huff and puff every fifteen paces. I took the pauses as opportunities to take pictures of moss, bark, and ferns with my phone camera.
An hour later the trees fell away and the Palouse was laid out before me. It was a sight I hadn’t expected to see. I sat reflecting at the top for a long time, suppressing the urge to address the empty space on the rock beside me. “Would you look at that…” I didn’t know how to feel about what I was seeing and what I’d just accomplished. I jotted a few notes. I found myself surprised that I had made it, a little confused, a little lonely, a little proud, and wondering if I would make it back down.
After that I got out a bit more. At first I was taken aback by the calm and the freedom. No one hurried me along. I could stop as long and as often as I needed to, to listen to the pop and rustle of the wind and wildlife or to let soreness dissipate. I found new pleasures in silently wondering over beetle galleries gnawed into barkless logs. I laid face-down on makeshift bridges of fallen logs, dangling my head and arms over the sides, plunging my hands into icy water and running my fingers over the colorful pebbles and flakes of mica schist at the bottoms of streams. Because I was free to take my time, hiking finally started to become something I wanted to do.
Years later I made a friend who has every bit as much trouble hauling herself uphill as I do. She sits with me, quietly waiting for my shaking knees to steady after long downhill stretches. I wait for her to catch her breath after particularly steep inclines. To sweeten the deal, she’s a biologist by trade. When we go out together she’s always happy to stop and point out an interesting bush or tree, or pluck a honeysuckle from its receptacle, hand it to me and tell me to taste the nectar.
I haven’t evolved into an outdoorswoman by any means. I am often content to lay in the hammock in my backyard or stroll through the city parks. I’m still uncomfortable with the idea of hiking in a group, and find it hard to enjoy the journey when I’m invariably dragging behind everyone else. But for years I thought I hated the outdoors because of the destination oriented way I was taught to interact with it.
I may never camp again in my life – who knows. But I am grateful to have learned that not only am I allowed to be outside with no agenda, it’s the best way to travel.