When the land becomes a part of you

They dropped us in the middle of the wilderness; commands coming straight from the Forest Service. Cut down the overlying trees on the trail and repair the scuffed up portions, ensuring even the most bewildered hiker can step foot in the right direction.

I found myself in what locals called “God’s Country,” a place that, until this summer, I didn’t believe existed in the minds of so many. To me, the term had a religious connotation, withdrawing itself from the hyper-politicized and spiritually-ambivalent lives of self-proclaimed seculars. Except God’s Country isn’t that complicated. It’s a simple idea. It’s a place of simple beauty.

I didn’t think a campsite shared similarities with a chapel. I didn’t believe that waking up with the overflowing hues of a morning sun and going to sleep with the encroaching stillness of a night sky could bring one to walk outside of their tent in amazement.

Unsurprisingly, I was wrong. I spent 10 weeks working outside, and those 10 weeks were utter bliss.

As many know, I talk about my days spent under Colorado summer, working for the different conservation organizations who called the forests their home, with reviews both overly-zealous and jubilant to the highest degree. I’ve been struck with the best kind of desire. The place I desire consistently gave me more than I could ask for, without expecting much in return.

My humbled and satiated heart grew fond of the hiking, the sawing, the kinetic movement of every joint in my body. For 10 weeks, paradise was no further than a walk outside my tent and a trek down to the trail. From there, the day’s journey began. I was embroiled in symbiotic relationship between man and nature. My senses, my actions and my thoughts became acutely attuned with my environment.

So it comes to no surprise that as the days shorten and the frigid howl of winter intrudes on our daily routines, I find myself longing for the days of summer. Surrounding me was an endless paradise.

I look back on my summer with a fondness, but even more so with an appreciation for the way my interactions with nature left an indelible mark on me. It would be wrong to say that the lessons I took away from my time out there never resulted in structured, empirically backed findings. Indeed, there were many occasions where scientific data and raw, unadulterated fact were the topic of conversation. I took away many items of knowledge I did not have before.

But to conclude with that and give little credence to the more existential, thought-provoking, nonmaterial conversations I had would fail to really encompass the true nature of my summer time experiment.

Many hours were spent alone in a glossy, glazed state — my eyes strapped to the organic fixtures aligning the background of every scene I was able to catch. I miss it in part because of the deprived landscapes my urban lifestyle affords me. I miss it in part because of the people who gave me more reason than one to call the empty wilderness home.

But I miss it because when I wasn’t paying attention, this place became my home. So transfixed was I every single moment; in the torrential downpour of a lightning storm to the dehydrated soil of the desert landscape.

I miss it because of how free it felt to be alive. Nothing, not even the days that seemed to never end — when hikes ran two hours longer than expected or when conjuring the energy to wake up at 5 a.m didn’t make sense — could have been more free than this.

And today, and probably tomorrow, I’ll miss it. But it will be okay today, as well as tomorrow. I know I’ll be home soon.