How to slow down and enjoy nature more
When I was living in Colorado, I did an internship at Colorado State University in Fort Collins where I researched and worked to develop water filtration methods for a summer. Many of us in the program were eager to hike and we found a hiking group that went on weekly hikes in the rockies. The pace was fast and the hikes were difficult. At first, it was exciting to finish these hikes and I felt accomplished. After I’d get back from one I’d start planning the next. When I got home from one particularly grueling hike, I had the realization: I’m in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and I didn’t really enjoy that hike except for the two minutes I spent on the summit. What’s the point if I’m miserable for 99% of the hike? From that moment on, I decided I wanted to find more joy in my journeys.
Many people (I know, I used to be one), approach nature hikes or experiences with specific goals like going fast and far. Many of us choose this without even realizing there’s another way: A journey-based approach. Through a journey-based approach, the most important value is connection—connection to ourselves, the natural world, and maybe even something bigger than either of those. One word that sums this approach up is saunter. Saunter means to walk in a slow, relaxed manner, without hurry or effort.
“I don't like either the word ‘hike’ or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains - not 'hike!' Do you know the origin of that word saunter? It's a beautiful word. Away back in the middle ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going they would reply, 'A la sainte terre', 'To the Holy Land.' And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them.” John Muir
Rock shoreline of Lake Superior in the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness
When connection is valued over acheivement, the most important thing is how you’re experiencing it. Shifting your perspective toward connecting in the moment, rather than pursuing external validation and achievements, can lead you to moderately challenging adventures with ample time for riverside contemplation, reading, journaling, refreshing swims in cool lakes, and lounging on mountaintops.
Now, my older self revels in the little pockets of experience along the journey. For instance, while backpacking in the Porcupine Mountains, there was a stretch of trail that opened up from dense woods to the vastness of Lake Superior. The shoreline boasted a rugged beauty, with diagonal burgundy rocks jutting out at angles. That day, the waves cascaded over the rocks, forming miniature waterfalls. Listening to the flowing water was soothing, and watching it was calming. My hiking partner and I stopped for lunch on a large slab, where we rested and basked in the experience. It's not that speed and distance are incompatible with appreciation; however, if you're on a hike and haven't felt a touch of delight, infusing moments of pleasure, joy, appreciation, and curiosity can enrich the experience, if that's what you seek.
It's not that goals and achievements are inherently negative. They can be wonderful ways to challenge ourselves and grow as individuals. At various points in my life, I aspired to be a brilliant chemist, a renowned yoga teacher, an elite rock climber, and a Settlers of Catan champion (which actually came true). The problem arises when some part of us believes that achieving a goal will give us approval or love. I call this Striving. At the root of Striving is constriction, fear, and lack. What’s crazy is that the most common way to try to satiate Striving is through the dopamine hit we receive when we achieve something. And yet, this perpetuates the cycle because after the dopamine hit drops, then we’re back on the achievement bus.
Trust me. I know this so well. In college for example, I studied a lot. I was very ambitious and nearly had a 4.0 with a double major in Chemistry and Environmental Science. I was also held officer positions in a number of clubs and was on Student Senate as a Committee Director. I had all the things going for me to build my resume, and yet, most of the time I was not enjoying it. I was all about the “destination” and not the journey.
Over time, I’ve made many transitions toward a journey-based approach and I can see this in my approach to backpacking. Instead of opting for the most advanced and challenging backpacking expeditions, I asked myself, "What would be the most enjoyable?" or "What feels most nurturing for me right now?" or "What would nourish what's most important to me?" More often than not, it led me to moderately challenging adventures with ample free time for riverside contemplation, reading, journaling, refreshing swims in cool lakes, and lounging on outcrops and mountaintops.
The first backpacking trip I planned with a journey-based perspective marked a significant shift in my approach to exploring the wilderness. Unlike previous expeditions on the Superior Hiking Trail that were governed by rigid itineraries and daily mileage targets, this time I deliberately chose a more leisurely pace. Each day, there was less ground to cover, allowing for ample room to savor every step of the journey.
View of Lake Superior from Carlton Peak
One particular memory stands out vividly. It was atop the magnificent Carlton Peak, where I truly internalized the essence of this new perspective. As the sun painted the sky with warm hues of amber and gold, I settled into a comfortable spot on the rocky outcrop. There, I lingered, unhurried and unburdened by the constant tick of the clock.
The sensation was simultaneously liberating and a tad unfamiliar. The absence of urgency was like shedding an old skin, revealing a new, more authentic way of experiencing the world. I wasn't racing against the fading light, nor was I anxious about reaching a predetermined destination before nightfall. Instead, I was rooted in the present moment, fully attuned to the subtle symphony of nature around me.
The world seemed to slow down, allowing me to rest in the serenity that surrounded me. Time, once an implacable taskmaster, now became a malleable companion, content to ebb and flow with the contours of the land.
As I sat there, cradled by the ancient stones beneath me, I realized that this journey-based perspective wasn't merely a shift in logistics; it was a profound recalibration of my relationship with the natural world. It was an acknowledgment that the true essence of exploration lay not in the destination, but in the intimate dance between each footfall and the earth beneath.
From that moment on, my adventures took on a different hue. They became less about conquest and more about communion. Each step was an invitation, each vista a whispered secret shared between the land and my soul. And in this dance of presence, I found a richness that no itinerary could ever promise.
This journey-based perspective became my compass, guiding me through rugged terrains and gentle meadows alike. It transformed every hike, every expedition, into a tapestry of moments, woven together by the threads of curiosity, wonder, and deep reverence for the world around me. And in that transformation, I discovered a profound truth: The true destination of any journey lies not at its end, but in the beautifully imperfect, ever-unfolding tapestry of the journey itself.