Not Hiking

I realized something: I don’t wanna hike; I wanna wander.

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time playing outside. Between preschool and third grade, I lived in Texas, and when I wasn’t swinging or climbing on the monkey bars, I was playing in the scrubby, sometimes pricker-prone grass. I liked to catch frogs and fireflies. The boys next door and I climbed on this enormous pile of rocks that would be searing hot in the sun, and sometimes you could find snakes, tarantulas, or scorpions. Across the street, there was a playground with a little stream that was perfect for exploring, and I was allowed to ride my bike around the neighborhood, even down to the lake. Then we moved northeast to Katonah, New York. Our new property was huge and full of places for adventure. Toward the end of our driveway, there were several weeping willow trees in a row that made a fantastic shelter. There were glacial rocks and amazing trees to climb, a pond with way too many Canadian geese, and huge hills that I’d race down in a sled when it was snowy and on a bike or in a red wagon when it was warmer. We lived right next door to a nature preserve, and I’d explore the trails, walk balancing across fallen trees, and wade in the stream at the first thaw. It was really only once we moved again, just as I was starting high school, that I stopped spending an exorbitant amount of time wandering around in nature.

When the kids were little, I really liked it when we took a family hike. The girls were not always high-enthusiasm at the start, but we’d pick someplace with a running stream or a waterfall, and that kept them engaged. They’d notice things that we wouldn’t. If there was a pile of rocks, they needed to climb them. We would stop to examine bugs or smell flowers. We’d take them camping, Cute W taught them to fish, and we tried letterboxing and geocaching. It was super-fun.

And then, somewhere along the way, things changed. First, we got very, very busy with. . . well, everything else. Gymnastics, soccer, volleyball, track, and other activities. When we did carve out time for a hike, the outings were a bit higher stakes. When you’re not doing something as often, you want to ensure that you’ve got a great destination. But the main difference is that the kids grew up. This meant that “hiking” evolved from “herding toddlers along for an hour or two” to actually hiking for a few hours. And the kids got bigger. And my family is super-athletic, plus they’re fast walkers, even if we’re just going around the block. So now instead of being herder-cheerleader, I had become the dead weight. It’s not really fun being the dead weight. I literally cannot keep up with them. Or, I can, almost, if they pause for me, and if I hike as briskly as I can. Which, so far, has been what I’ve done. Because I do not want to be a killjoy, and I would like to be a person who can easily keep up with my super-fit and athletic family. And yet I am not.

Fast-forward to this summer. We had planned a trip to Colorado, mostly to meet up with Cute W’s parents, because it’s become increasingly difficult to coordinate trips to see them, and we’ve been to their hometown of Kansas City many, many times. We hadn’t been to Colorado in a while, and we have relatives there that we also hadn’t seen in a while, but more important, Cute W loves Colorado.

Well, this Colorado trip started to feel a bit jinxed from the start. First, we were flying Delta, which means that our flight got cancelled, and suddenly we were losing a day. Then Cute W’s parents had to cancel. But there were still plenty of other family members to see, plus we’d set aside time to visit Breckenridge, where M had spent a season during her Covid gap year. And we planned a hike.

The truth is, I wasn’t super-psyched about the hike. I always feel a bit like I’m gasping for air in Colorado, plus I had only recently recovered from spraining my ankle, which meant I was even less in shape than usual. Plus I was feeling particularly paranoid about stepping carefully, since the doctor had warned that I’d be vulnerable to repeat-sprains for a while. The last time we’d hiked in Colorado, I’d developed a raging bloody blister and I just hiked through it, wincing with every step, because I didn’t want to be the killjoy who spoiled my family’s hiking fun.

This time, we got started, and after not-very-long, huffing air and stepping anxiously between rocks twenty feet behind my family, I aborted the mission. The family continued on their 6-mile round trip up the mountain, and I bailed and decided to stick close to the trailhead.

Shortly afterwards, I wondered why I’d ever considered hiking in the first place. This was much better.

I read for a while, but then I spent a bit of time exploring, dawdling, and taking a ton of pictures. It was really beautiful.

The views were splendid.

There was a babbling brook with sounds so soothing that I recorded audio with plans to use it as a background to meditation.

And most of all, there were so many gorgeous flowers and other little details of nature that I wouldn’t have had time to look at and photograph if I were trying to keep up with my speedy family. Here are just a few of the pictures:

I knew I had a few hours to kill, and it was surprisingly delightful to have no particular plan and plenty of time to wander and look around, like back when I was a kid. It was a delight.

When my family found me at the end of their hike, I was actually a little startled by how quickly they’d returned. A daughter laughed, “Did you need more alone time?” Ummm, honestly? Yes. But that’s okay. It was still lovely to see them.