I would describe my hiking style as meandering. I meander through the cacti or the trees, along the lake edge or high above the canyon. I enjoy a slow, wandering walk.
Many people like to speed through or even run on trails, timing themselves to reach the overlook or top of the mountain, as though they are in a competition with some internal opponent. I respect these folks. Exercise is important; sweating a little is a key part of any hike.
I don’t need to go fast to sweat, however, so I just take my time. I come from a long line of women who glisten and glow with the slightest effort; my mother is an accomplished sweater, as was her mother before her. By the time I arrive at a trailhead to begin a hike with a pack on my back, I am probably sweating.
Blessed as I am with such enthusiastic sweat glands, I don’t need speed to feel like I’ve completed a good workout. In fact, I find that I am at my healthiest when taking frequent breaks.
I hike slowly and stop often. Sometimes I break for water or to catch my breath. Other times I linger to snap a photo or identify an unfamiliar plant. And if I hear a bird song or spy a snake slithering off into the brush, well, all bets are off. I might linger in that spot for some time, listening and waiting for a glimpse of something wild.
My time working as a US national park ranger contributed greatly to my hiking style. When in nature, I’ve trained my eyes to watch and my ears to listen. For years, I studied the natural world with the same fervency of those trail speedsters, as though someone were cracking a whip behind me, urging me on.
“You must know all the plants, Stephanie,” the imaginary park supervisor who lived rent-free in my mind would scold. “What if a visitor asks you about that plant, and you don’t know what it is?”
Now that I am no longer a ranger, I have no park visitors or supervisors to impress with my naturalist knowledge. I identify the plants not because of the little demon supervisor on my shoulder, but because I like to. I enjoy categorizing and identifying; that is the way my brain works. I find it comforting.
And so I stop, inspect, and whip out my phone app that identifies plants. I watch for seasonal changes, plants that weren’t here the last time I hiked or birds that have begun to sing again after a long, quiet winter. While hiking, I note the natural world like the naturalist I was trained to be, work that takes time.
I also like naming things; it has an almost spiritual feel. Perhaps the eastern hemlock does not know it is called an eastern hemlock; perhaps its true name is something I’ll never know. Still, the feel of its flat, short, smooth needles is as familiar to me in southwest Virginia as it is in northern Michigan. Calling the tree by name reminds me I am not alone; I am among old friends.
Last Labor Day, I took a short hike in Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, a national park site located in the northern section of the lower peninsula of Michigan. I hiked slowly through forest, wetland, and farmland. Suddenly a loud croaking erupted overhead–the sound of violent, blissful retching. Something up in the sky was projectile vomiting but, like, happy about it?
Sandhill cranes. I recognized their calls instantly (they’re difficult to forget). Looking up, I spotted the birds, four thin white arrows high above, their pale feathers glinting in the afternoon sun.
They were having a raucous time, heading south to enjoy a warm winter. North American sandhill cranes migrate thousands of miles each year, a journey their species has undertaken for millions of years. One of the oldest birds in the world, the ancestors of these migrants squawked with this same unabashed joy while flying over the first humans to set foot in Michigan, 14,000 years ago.
The cranes seemed happy to be on the move again, and I was thrilled to stumble across them. I stared at the sky until I could no longer see or hear them, ignoring the bicyclists and runners passing by. I remember encountering these birds while living in Alaska, starting at their loud voices and then watching them soar south like paper planes, just like this day in Michigan. I once watched sandhill cranes laze on a lawn by an airport in Florida, clearly enjoying their snowbird winter.
My whole life I have migrated, some years even with seasonal regularity like these birds: I have always been on the move. My parents carted me from home to home, state to state, and then once grown I got moving myself, uprooting and replanting myself as much as five times a year. I have lived in and visited many places. Like these sandhill cranes, I am a traveler. And yet, here we were, meeting again. No matter where I roam, if I take my time and remain observant, I will see familiar faces.
So if you see me on the trail, squatting by a wildflower or staring up at the sky with a vacant grin on my face, understand that I am not having a stroke. I am enjoying a slow, joyful hike, searching for old and new friends. Feel free to give me a nod as you trot past.