The Best Travel Is on Foot, Through Wilderness

Some folks think the best way to travel is by private jet. Or yacht. My choice: by foot.

Some think that the best thing about America is its wealth, technology and modernity. Others point to its Democratic institutions. But I’m with the writer Wallace Stegner that America’s “best idea” is our spectacular inheritance of public lands — purple mountain majesties — amounting to about 40 percent of our nation. As Stegner said of our national parks: “Absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best.”

Some people worship in a church, others in a temple or mosque. I attend the cathedral of the wilderness, for among wildflowers in an alpine meadow we can all connect to something grander than ourselves.

I don’t want to overromanticize the wild; my cathedral has no thermostat, so it’s always too cold or too hot, and it can be filled with mosquitoes. But wilderness still fills me with semireligious awe.

The 17th-century philosopher Baruch Spinoza argued that God and nature were the same, and perhaps in an age of declining religious practice some can find in nature another kind of higher power to be inspired by. Like religion, wild spaces teach us humility and patience (certainly mosquitoes do). Wilderness puts us in our place, calms us, soothes our souls. Like prayer or meditation, walking through the wild gives us an opportunity to detach, to reflect, to self-correct.

So here I am in my alpine cathedral on the slopes of Mount Hood in Oregon, marking the end of summer with my wife, Sheryl WuDunn, as we backpack on the Timberline Trail. My family hikes this loop around the mountain almost every year.

We cowboy camp, without a tent — if rain seems likely we set up a small tarp — and fall asleep watching shooting stars. Then we rise with the first orange rays of the sun: A sunrise serves as caffeine. We stow our sleeping bags and hike, with no schedule or plan. When we’re tired, we rest and eat. When we’re thirsty, we stop at a rushing creek and fill a water bottle with snowmelt. When dusk approaches, we find a flat patch of ground and lay out our sleeping bags.