Into the Wilderness

“This is dumb!” he said, slamming his stick to the ground. “I will not be quiet! You tell us to be quiet in the house and to go outside if we want to make noise. Now we’re outside and we’re not allowed to make noise? That’s stupid!”
We were heading back down the trail toward the car. Our hike cut short by his insolence and my temper.
“You think I’ll ever buy you hiking boots or hiking gear when you can’t even follow the simple rules?” The words tumbled out of my mouth, harsh with the disappointment I felt at the plan gone so awry. My anger seethed as I prodded the kids back to the trailhead. As I stomped my way down the mountain, I wracked my brain for ideas – plans for training and teaching my children how to behave in the great outdoors. The curtain was fast falling on my beautiful plans of exploring all the state and national parks in our area.
I was embarrassed. I loved nature. I respected nature. I had raised my children to do the same. But the thought of having my nature-conscientious friends coming along with my family’s adventures through the woods burned my cheeks with shame. They would not believe that I harbored any love for this beauty around us. They would see only how destructive my children were.
As I continued walking and thinking, my mind’s perspective slowly changed, from how to train my children to behave outdoors, to wondering why I needed to train my children to behave outdoors. He was right, after all. We had rules about how to behave indoors. In our house, we needed to be quiet. To clean up and keep things nice. To walk gently and not bounce off the walls or jump off the couch. I was constantly telling my kids to “go outside if you want to behave like monkeys!”
In an effort to reduce destruction of natural beauty, we live in a neighborhood of tightly packed homes. Our postage stamp of green yard surrounded by concrete sidewalks and ribbons of blacktop. This is my children’s playground. This is where they explore, build, discover, and make believe. They will never get to have the big yards that I had as a child. They don’t have trees to climb, or grassy hills to roll down, or woods in which to build forts, play house, become elves or explorers. These are the memories of my childrhood that I cherish.
When I was a child, I don’t remember walking quietly through the woods in observation, unless it was part of an espionage game I was playing with my brothers and their friends. Quiet observations was for those years of transformation. Those years when my body was growing out of my childhood skin and into my emerging adult one. As an adult, walking quietly through the woods is one of the most peaceful parts of my life. And I think this is part of what upset me about my hikes with my kids. I wanted a museum. They wanted an adventure.
My needs as an adult were now different than my needs as a child.
Whereas I cherished soaking in the beauty around me through my eyes, ears and breath, my children grabbed broken limbs and fashioned them into their perfect walking sticks or bush whacking tools. They did not care to be quiet and enjoy the peace, or to catch a glimpse of an animal. They raced and hollered, any animal nearby would have fled, having heard us from miles away. They did not want to walk a path already laid out. They wanted to be explorers, discovering the woods on their own. Not from the distance, but up close – making their own trails, picking up leaves, and flowers, and feathers and sticks and seeing how a decaying log crumbles when you kick it.
I am a history buff, and love museums. I love preservation. To be able to see things that have gone untouched and left in pristine condition. To understand how things have been throughout time. I can understand why we need to preserve the nature around us. If we were to all go into the woods and whack down trees, crash out new paths, pluck all the leaves and rocks, what would the person behind us have to see and learn and discover? But I never thought that I would have to teach my children to behave outdoors as if they were in a museum. Look but don’t touch. Quiet voices. Walk softly.
I have decided to wait on my beautiful plan of exploring all the nearby state and national park trails. For now we will stick to the undeveloped neighborhood that is behind ours, that has been left to grow wild again. Here my children can whoop and holler and run and jump and climb. Slowly I will teach them the joy of a quiet, reflective walk through the woods. Afterall, it is an important part of life as well. Just one that’s suited more toward adults, rather than children.