The western and manifest-destined North America: Mountains, deserts, canyons and sandstone formations comprise the terrain. Cool winds haunt the night; the early sun blazes the red, clay earth. Below an ancient tree, covered in grime, an exhausted student emerges from a worn-down tent into the peaceful dawn. He moves in stiff actions, a sign that he did not sleep well the night before. No birds sing upon his arrival. The air is silent. Not even the wind dares to bellow.
He is not alone. He is among a tribe of five other migratory University of Michigan students, surrounded by a vast expanse of mesa. They are far from the watering holes of State Street and must act swiftly to reach the next checkpoint of their journey.
***
It was the last day of my spring break trip before our time came to a close, forcing me to go back to school. During the week, I took on an exciting voyage to the nature-rich kingdoms of Southern Utah and Central Colorado alongside a few of my friends in the Michigan Backpacking Club. Isolated from society, we hiked, camped, laughed, quieted our speech and basked in the sunlight and wilderness.
We flourished throughout the nine days of the trip without a shower, still wearing our same pairs of pants. We lacked any meals more flavorful than Dinosaur Eggs oatmeal, and we went without a single restful night as we slept in below-freezing temperatures. However counterintuitive, these factors forged the experience into one of the best weeks of my life.
In other words, we experienced bliss in the emptiness of our luxuries.
I had all of my essential needs such as water, food and shelter fulfilled — what more could I ask for? Sure, I had to filter and add purification tablets to the frigid spring water we collected on the mountain tops. I had to cook for six people in a miniature pot meant for two, which resulted in us eating two spoonfuls of instant rice every 15 minutes before I could make the next batch. In my dusty tent, I cleaned my face with a baby wipe that would change from pure white into a dark orange hue after the first wipe. But in spite of all that, I had everything I wanted: close friends by my side and time to take in the beauty of one of the most majestic places on Earth. Having gone backpacking before, I knew what these experiences felt like, and I yearned for them.
I was more than content. In this environment, I had time to wonder, to reflect, to feel and, in contrast, to not feel anything all at once. The core of hiking is quite literally going on a walk — one of the first skills I learned in my lifetime — but on a more strenuous level. My mind would go blank at times when I would concentrate on making sure I didn’t step weirdly on the uneven ground. The silence was very welcomed. It was a delightful change from the constant noise that surrounds me in my days, where I fill even the tiny gaps in my schedule with scrolling on social media.
Like collecting pebbles, I captured the mundane, beautiful moments of the trip in an aesthetic vlog on my slim digital camera. Upon my return, I proudly displayed the romanticized footage to my close friends while I commented on the scenes. I was surprised when they all had the same response: “Why would you want to do this?”
For me, the opposite was difficult to understand. Why wouldn’t I want to do this? While my friends were caught up on what I had lacked (basic hygiene and clean clothes), I couldn’t care less about that. In the empty desert, I didn’t have a to-do list overfilled with assignments and interviews. My only concern, in essence, was surviving. My fears returned to their animalistic nature. I felt my fear of heights, one of the only fears humans are born with, activate as I stared down a steep canyon. Traveling through bear country, I kept the bear spray close, afraid of a potential interaction. In contrast, survival doesn’t even cross my mind here in Ann Arbor, where, in contrast, I fear whichever assignment is due next at 11:59 p.m.
Perhaps not thinking about survival in Ann Arbor means that the University is doing its job well. Kudos, Michigan! Thankfully, the high tables at the Shapiro Undergraduate Library have never ignited my fear of heights. Here, I have no unwanted interactions with scary animals unless I count the time I passed by Rick’s American Cafe on Halloween night while on the way to the East Quad Residence Hall. Being a student at the University, however, made me fear judgment, poor grades, losing my friends, a long line outside NYPD Pizza and losing to The Ohio State University in football, again. While scary (especially the last one), none of these are necessary for my survival.
I never thought that I would long for my innate fears, but there was something beautiful about running away to nature throughout the trip. I can’t recall the last time I scraped my knee in an attempt to climb a tree, nor the last time I fell into a patch of poison ivy. It feels silly to yearn for a life with those hardships, devoid of the blessings I hold. Yet, at the same time, I feel immediate malaise receiving 40 Canvas notifications as my professor actively grades my paper. I love my friends, but I don’t always want to respond to text messages late at night. When backpacking, although it was a small lie, I rebelled against the world that expects me to always be reachable by telling others that I wouldn’t have signal, allowing myself to be on an “ultimate do not disturb” and feel the peace of disconnection. I would also say I love to learn, but my eyes could use some rest from staring into a dimly lit computer screen all day long. I wonder, do these sentiments make me selfish?
I know that I should feel lucky to have these complaints, but I can’t bring myself to internally accept them. I’d prefer the itchiness of poison ivy over the Canvas notifications since at least it’s physical and has a clear root cause. Likewise, I don’t want a corporate job, however affluent it may be, in the future that makes me perform — what even are streamlining processes and the 80/20 rule? Does having the privilege of an education and the possibility of a prosperous future make me lose the right to feel overwhelmed?
These feelings were waiting for me back on campus. Eventually, I would have to stop running away from them.
The first day back on campus after my trip, I was still on a “nature high,” a mindset of awe and feeling grounded to the Earth. As I walked through the Diag, I watched the campus squirrels more carefully, appreciating their whimsical running. I vowed that I wouldn’t fall into my old habits of ignoring nature. Before my trip, I would speed walk through campus with my headphones on, ignoring the world. Now, I wanted to rip off the headphones to hear the birds sing.
But my old habits soon befell me once again.
Whenever participating in a group icebreaker activity, I tend to say that I love hiking as one of my fun facts, even though I only hike during designated trips. The truth is, I haven’t gone on a spontaneous hike since last summer. Despite that, my close friends and I ask one another, “Does anyone want to go to the Arb tonight?” on a weekly basis. Despite us all showing interest, we have yet to actually take each other up on this offer.
This week was no exception. By Sunday, I felt the notification buzz in my right pocket and received the predictable message. I replied, saying I could hike in the following weeks once my workload died down, but just not this one.
But my workload never died down. In reality, it has become much worse.
I made excuses to push off the way I wanted to live, and in doing so, I pushed it off indefinitely. In all honesty, I am not sure if I can integrate my hiker personality into my academic environment. I want to be the kind of person I am when I blissfully backpack, not the stressed one on campus. They both hold strong ground in their respective environments, but polarize each other when together. Hiking gives me an immediate sense of calm. However, studying can potentially give me a better quality of life in an allegedly promised future.
Upon returning from spring break, I intended to use what I had learned while backpacking to live life better. No more constantly checking my phone. No more staying locked inside all day. Rather, I was going to make an effort to go outside more. I was going to put time aside to think and gain more clarity in my life. I wanted this to come naturally, without effort. But with time, I am realizing that I have to forcefully create the life I want to live. However simple that may seem, I am just now internalizing the sentiment by setting time aside to spend outside. Perhaps this is only the checkpoint before I continue on my journey of being a student.
Realistically, I am never going to be wearing full-on hiking gear while walking through campus. I can’t just leave my responsibilities behind to spontaneously immerse myself in nature. My workload is also likely to only increase as I take harder classes in the coming semesters. However, my choice to think in the mindset I had while hiking — silence, reflection and a return to the fundamentals of life — can enter my daily life here. My survival in Ann Arbor does not have to be about avoiding stress. Rather, it can be protecting the blissful mindset I found on the hiking trail.
I can start by going on a walk.
Statement Columnist Eugenio Camino-Cantu can be reached at ecamino@umich.edu.
