“Both friends came to realize that walking over long distances and spans of time is the surest way to find oneself.”

Tobjorn Ekelund In Praise of Paths: Walking Through Time and Nature  p. 33

I gazed into the campfire, watched the yellow and orange flames rise and fall, heard the crackle of burning wood, and smelled the wood smoke.   Watching the flickering flames I made a decision to get up early and take a long hike.  I wanted to better understand this “finding of oneself” through walking.

I added two oak logs to the fire, watched the flames catch and spark and reflected on this phenomenon of finding oneself.   It seemed that everyone who took a long hike or who immersed themselves deeply in nature described this sense of a deeper, clearer, truer connection to oneself.  This connection might be the most important benefit of a nature connection I thought. But it was also an effect that was highly personal, very individual, elusive to define, and hard to measure.

The other benefits of a nature connection seemed more easily understood and have been repeatedly measured in scientific research.  Physically, these benefits include lower blood pressure, decreased levels of stress hormones, a slower, steadier heartbeat, and more balanced respiration.  Emotionally the effects include greater feelings of optimism, gratitude, happiness and empathy and decreased feelings of sadness, anger, and despair.  Cognitively research has shown that time in nature improves attention, boosts problem solving and enhances creativity. 

But I wanted to learn more about what happens in body, mind and soul to create this sense of connection to oneself.  My plan was to hike from my campsite in the Pisgah National Forest up to Sleepy Gap, a scenic pull off along the Blue Ridge Parkway, a spot that provided both a panoramic view of mountains and valleys and an intersection with the famous Mountain to Sea long distance hiking trail. 

An Early Start                      6:48-7:08 am              .86 miles

Spontaneously, effortlessly, I woke up as the first hints of daylight spread through the forest and filtered through the screen windows of the tent.

Silence at all the other campsites. Having learned that it is unwise for me to set off early without caffeine and food I sat at the picnic table, sipped a bottle of cold, creamy, dark espresso tasting Frappuccino, and munched a few Italian milk and honey cookies, cookies plain enough to pass for nourishment.

Silence in the woods. I was up before the birds.  Just as I sipped the last drops of coffee the first bird sang, a Carolina wren, opening the morning chorus with a loud, clear, jaunty tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle.  A white-breasted nuthatch joined in with a nasal yank, yank, yank chant. A cardinal whistled its pure, melodic birdy, birdy, birdy song.

I set off down the road from the campground, a road I had walked daily, but now, alone, in the quiet of morning, for the first time I heard the soft shushing of water flowing along the bottom of the ravine. In the distance, deep in the heavily leafed oak and maple forest a yellow-billed cuckoo called a mournful ka-ka-ka-kow-kow.  Fresh morning air touched my face.  I inhaled the fragrance of damp earth and fertile forest.  My senses were awake. 

Stepping off the road onto the Pine Loop Trail, I started on first segment of my route to Sleepy Gap.  The trail ascended up a ravine next to Bent Creek.  A sign set next to a thick, mostly decayed fallen tree read “Natural Disturbances” and described the heavy damage to the forest including the uprooting of many trees caused by a hurricane Opal in 1995.

This sign with its faded almost illegible print covered with a thin layer of mold was itself an emblem of natural disturbances.  The Pine Loop Trail, imposed upon an old road and heavily trafficked by day hikers and mountain bikers, was another well-worn nature disturbance with its bare reddish dirt and its network of exposed roots that looked like arteries coursing across the earth.

Rhododendrons grew in dense profusion in the moist soil along the creek.  I gazed at the shiny long dark green leaves and thought about how lovely this trail must be in the spring when the rhododendrons bloom.  I thought about the Rhododendron Park I had visited in Bremen Germany where I learned how these plants grow all over the world in dappled sunlight.  This moist shady forest along the banks of Bent Creek was clearly ideal habitat.

I settled into a rhythm of walking, stretching out the last vestiges of morning stiffness, my limbs finding their way into smooth coordination.  I felt an urge to keep walking but knew how readily walking stimulates thinking. I had read how great thinkers like Darwin, Kant and Roseau walked to think and problem solve.  I had a pretty good idea that as I walked new layers of thought would cover earlier layers so I planned to stop periodically to write down my observations.  I sat on a log and wrote my first set of observations.

Alone on the Trail                  7:35 am                       1.56 miles

Ascending the ravine I emerged from the rhododendrons into a hardwood forest topped with tall stately oaks and maples; a thick canopy of green leaves above, and lacy ferns carpeting the forest floor below. 

I noticed that I was paying very close attention to my surroundings.  I was on my own and had to find my way, had to keep track of land marks, read the map correctly, and make the right turns.  There would be no group decision, no reassurances from others that the route was right.

Arriving at the first trail intersection, a connector to the Explorer Trail, I stopped and double checked the map.  A few steps down the trail I paused, looked back, and fixed landmarks in my mind that I would need on my return trip.

Hiking alone, finding my way, focused on the trail, I was tuned into the present moment. Extraneous thoughts and concerns were pushed to the periphery of my awareness. Maybe this heightened trail focus created by traveling alone and maintained out of survival necessity was one element of finding oneself.

Ascending                               8:12 am                       2.49 miles

I reached the Sleepy Gap Trail, a trail reserved just for hikers with no mountain bikes or horses allowed.  The trail climbed steeply upwards with sharp turns, switch backs and in the steepest places steps carved into the earth.  A trail crew had been working recently clearing fallen logs and branches, digging drainage ditches, building steps, and in one spot hacking a seat into a log.   I was so tuned into the trail that I could almost feel the intentions, almost read the minds of the trail crew as they crafted a route for water and built steps exactly where needed.

I heard the birds of the deep high woods; the slow, mechanical metronome chweeo, cheewup of a blue-headed vireo and the precision continuous here I am, over here of a red-eyed vireo.  Looking up the trail I saw it wind and twist and turn up and up the side of the mountain.  Far above I spotted beams of bright sunlight filtering through the trees, an opening perhaps, hopefully my goal, the Sleepy Gap Overlook.

As I gazed up at the trail, I realized this was a climb that each person would need to take at their own pace. Each climber would need to follow the path in their own way.  The path suddenly became both literal and figurative.  Tangible reality and transformational metaphor merged. 

Everyone has a path.   I was walking my path.  As my friend Torbjorn wrote, “The path is the goal and the goal is the path.”

My legs energized, my steps lightened, all other concerns fading away, my purpose singular, my mind focused I climbed my path towards the summit feeling how experience and metaphor blended to bring me closer to myself.

Striding to the top of the trail I stepped into the overlook where I saw a lush open meadow offering a panoramic vista where wispy blue morning mist floating above a wide valley and draped across distant mountains.  These were blue ridges for sure.    Birds sang around me; chickadees, a tufted titmouse, a robin and a catbird.  Goldenrods bloomed.  I felt a sense of elation.  I had reached my goal.

As I sat down to write my notes I noticed a sign with an arrow pointing uphill to the Mountain to Sea Trail.  Maybe this was like the search for self.  You reach one level, celebrate briefly, but then in a humbling, sobering moment you realize that path goes on and that another climb awaits you.

The Mountain to Sea Trail (MST)                           8:35                             2.9 miles

The Mountain to Sea Trail ascended across rocks, between trees, and under branches.  Steep steps led the way. I immediately sensed a difference in this trail.  It was a thru hiking trail not a day use path like Sleepy Gap.

The MST was narrow, less traveled, less worn and in places lightly covered, almost camouflaged by leaf litter.  If a trail, as Robert MacFarland contends in his book On Trails, holds the voices, thoughts and feelings, the subtle vibes of all those who have previously traversed it, then this trail sang of long distance treks, of hours and days and nights of moving forward, through sun and rain and wind.  It sang of a deeper journey to oneself.

This was an alluring song to me, a siren call to leave everyday life behind and trek in sacred solitude down this long path from the high peaks and deep ravines of the Great Smokey Mountains to the tidal marshes and sandy beaches of the Atlantic Ocean.

Stepping slowly, steadily, silently, almost reverently down the trail I felt the stirrings of an urge to commit to a long thru hike.  Trails came to mind, the famous Appalachian Trail, the majestic Pacific Crest Trail or the long North Country Trail.  But what jumped to the head of the line was the Ice Age Trail that wound for a 1000 miles across my home state of Wisconsin, a trail that would be both a homecoming and a new exploration.

It was very hard to turn around.  But a glance at my watch reminded me that it was time to head back to the campground to meet my wife and daughter for a picnic lunch.

Forest Treasures                                           9:00 am                       3.59 miles

Descending the steep Sleepy Gap Trail was physically more demanding than ascending. Gravity pushed me downhill.  I used my trekking poles and the muscles of my upper legs as brakes.  I could feel the strain on my knees as I picked my way down steps, over rocks and around steep turns.  I recalled that more injuries happen hiking down than hiking up.

As I descended it occurred to me that the descent from the elation of summiting was also fraught with psychological challenges.  How do you hold on to the essence of summiting? How do you share your joy and inspiration with others?

I wasn’t sure how to manage these psychological challenges of the descent, but I discovered that I could relax into the physical challenge.  I evened out my breathing and searched for the sweet spot of balance with gravity and effort, of letting gravity assist me instead of fighting it.

As my body took over the process of descending I looked around at the forest floor.  This was late summer in a North Carolina rain forest where it rained almost every day.  Mushrooms grew all around on the forest floor, on the fallen half rotted logs and stumps.  I saw a stunning variety of shapes and colors; round caps, crystal-like forms, indented hats, buttons, umbrellas, gills and stalks with marshmallow tops.  I saw an array of colors; red, white, orange, tan and brown.

I spotted an acorn that had fallen on the trail.  I am not one for collecting souvenirs and don’t like to disturb nature as I walk. But this time I paused, picked it up, held it in my hand, and placed it in my pocket.  I would set it on my dresser to remind me of this hike.

Just Walking                                      9:36 am                       4.79 miles

Back on the Explorer Trail the way was wider, the descent more gradual.  I eased into an effortless rhythm of walking, boots padding softly and steadily across the earth, arms and legs moving in synchrony, eyes looking ahead.  Walking felt effortless and natural.

I reflected that the human body had evolved for bipedal locomotion, an evolution that probably resulted in losing some mammalian advantages in strength, speed and climbing ability, but a development that allowed the eyes to gaze ahead, that freed up the hands to grab and manipulate objects and that allowed the back to carry burdens.  Perhaps this bipedal posture was one factor that stimulated the growth of the frontal lobes and brought the abilities to plan, organize, know time and distance, and above all to wander.

I felt this core ambulatory experience, felt my alertness to all around me, felt my curiosity to discover what lay beyond each turn in the path.  I felt the reassuring comfort of my backpack, my supplies for daily life if needed.  I felt the readiness of my arms and hands to grasp, pull, carry and explore.  As I walked I felt fully human. Perhaps this connection with basic human bipedal locomotion was another way of finding oneself on the trail.

Return                                                10:03                           5.71 miles

I rejoined the road.  The cool fresh air and soft angled light of morning had faded and been replaced by the bright direct light and rising warmth of daytime.  Cicadas called. Dragonflies darted.  Butterflies fluttered among the goldenrods and Queen Anne’s lace. A warm breeze whooshed through the leaves above me.

I arrived back at the campsite feeling satisfied.   Sitting down, I unlaced my boots, peeled off my socks and thought that most likely there were many, many ways in which walking leads to oneself. I had learned about a few, but surely there was more to learn, more long walks to take, more paths to follow, and more discoveries to make.

This wander walk took place on August 12, 2020 in the Pisgah National Forest near Asheville, NC.

You can read more about my wander walks and sit spots in other entries on this blog and in my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available at Amazon.com and thru Shanti Arts Publishing.