From my bikepacking campsite in the Breadloaf wilderness, I gaze across the Champlain Valley and into the Adirondack High Peaks region. It’s easy to understand the early Romantic thoughts about the region. In an early 1880s poem from the Adirondacks entitled Old Bear Mountain, poet Cornelius Carter pondered the range and commented:

“‘And as I stand upon this mount

And view the broad domain

I would that I could linger here

As long as life remain’”

(Gooley)

The power of the wilderness is not unique to the Adirondacks, however. I’m a passionate New Hampshirite (“Live Free or Die” stickers adorn my beat-up burgundy Honda Pilot) – and my White Mountains hold that same appeal.

Tramping through the snow to the summit of February Osceola, an owl’s journey fans the flaps of my hat. There is something spiritual about the tranquility; the night’s dark shades cover the highway far below, and I feel like I’m on an island.

The highway supports local tourism and allows for the small manufacturing economy in the region, as well as providing more reliable access to key features of life like hospitals and schools. It allows civilization to exist in the central wilderness of New Hampshire.

But its brief absence from my reality makes the wilderness feel more special – more absolute. I believe in accessibility to the wilderness. I want local areas to thrive and economies to be strong.

But I also want moments like this to be preserved – even in the daylight.

Henry Conklin, writing in the late 1800s as his poor farming family set off for the Adirondacks, wrote that he was happy about “going to [his] new home in the wilderness” (Terrie 31). Conklin wrote in a literal sense – he was attempting to establish a full time farming lifestyle in the Adirondacks. But many modern tourists, travellers, seasonal residents, and yearly pilgrims comment that they feel most at home in a particular wilderness. Perhaps there is something innately comforting about the woods in a time when so much of modern American life is sterilized, polished, and covered in linoleum tiling.

I write this blog post deep within the halls of Battell, my bare feet grazing the cool floor. This is not natural. My feet belong buried in dirt, sleep is most restorative when interrupted by a spine-scratching root.

The restorative power of nature is known not just anecdotally, but also analytically. Per studies from the European Centre for Environment & Human Health at the University of Exeter, “’Nature is not only nice to have, but it’s a have-to-have for physical health and cognitive function’” (Robbins).

I’m running along the TAM, my feet bouncing from root to root – the collegiate version of hopscotch. It’s not quite the beauty, respite, or healing to be found from a month in the Adirondacks. Unlike the boy Murray mentions, I don’t have that kind of time. But it’s healing nonetheless. I scan the horizon, taking a bit of strength and tranquility from each peak.

I don’t linger, I up the pace, quickly shower, and head to the Davis library to work on my Ecology and Evolution Skill Builder. The Adirondacks will still be around come Saturday afternoon.

Literature Cited:

Gooley, Lawrence P. “Cornelius Carter: Poet of the Adirondacks.” Adirondack Almanac, Adirondack Explorer, 2 Feb. 2015, www.adirondackalmanack.com/2015/02/cornelius-carter-poet-of-the-adirondacks.html. Accessed 22 Oct. 2021.

Robbins, Jim. “Ecopsychology: How Immersion in Nature Benefits Your Health.” Yale Environment 360, Yale School of the Environment, 9 Jan. 2020, e360.yale.edu/features/ecopsychology-how-immersion-in-nature-benefits-your-health. Accessed 22 Oct. 2021.

Terrie, Philip G. Contested Terrain: A New History of Nature and People in the Adirondacks. 2nd ed., Blue Mountain Lake, Adirondack Museum, 2008.