Finding Peace Outside - Walking and Healing
As the saying goes, “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” In my case, it’s more like, “all work and no play makes Jayk a dull boy.” Thankfully, the weekend arrived, offering a brief escape from the drudgery of the workweek. And with it came a much-needed opportunity to get outside, breathe fresh air, and reset my mind.
Yesterday, my sweetheart and I set out for a walk, covering about four miles in a couple of different spots around town. Our first destination was Wilson Ponds, a serene area nestled next to a fish hatchery on the outskirts of the city. The dark rain clouds loomed overhead, remnants of the night’s relentless showers, but we managed to catch a perfect break in the weather. The sky was a breathtaking mix of dark white, various shades of blue, and deep storm clouds still dropping rain on distant parts of the valley. It was one of those rare moments where nature seemed to pause just for us.
Wilson Ponds felt alive. Hundreds of ducks, Canadian geese, and American coots drifted lazily across the water, some parts of which looked a little cleaner than others. The paths wove through urban wetlands, lined with trees and dotted with signs offering glimpses into the area’s history and the various fish species that inhabit the ponds around here. We only passed a handful of people—fishermen with their lines tied with bobbers, patiently waiting for a fish to bite, older folks on quiet strolls, and young families with toddlers still mastering the wobbly art of walking a different points along our walk. The ground was still damp and muddy from the recent rain, slick spots reminding us to tread carefully. My back was still a bit tight as I continue recovering from surgery, and my sweetheart’s injured hamstring from a recent fall on the ice left us focused on making sure each step a mindful one. Trying not to slip in the muddy spots or step in scattered duck and dog poop that we encountered along our way.
After about 2.5 miles, we had covered most of the terrain and decided it was time to explore another spot—Lake Lowell. We took a slow, meandering path to get there, the drive turning into an unexpected trip through memory lane of when the areas were nothing but farmland, far away from anything but the occasional old, run down farm house, now buried under rows of freshly built homes. Some were sprawling estates, others smaller, all meticulously planned with HOAs ensuring their uniformity. It was a stark reminder of how much had changed. Fortunately finding small breaks along the way of spots of open land that still held its beauty that seemed to be quickly disappearing.
We found an entrance to a parking area on the northeast side of the lake, surrounded by little more than farmland and wilderness. With only a few cars scattered in the lot, I felt an immediate sense of relief—space, solitude, a break from the confines and busyness of the city. The feeling of being cooped up after surgery had wound me restless and wound up tight, but stepping back out into the crisp morning air, I felt my anxiety quickly begin to unwind.
The dirt path along the lake led us to a beautiful view of the Owyhee Mountains, their snow-covered peaks peeking through the thickening cloud cover. A light breeze kept a chill in the air just right for a sweatshirt and a walk, the temperature hovering in the low 40s. Ice still lined the lake’s edge from the colder temperatures we had been experiencing, with remnants of past visitors' experiments with throwing rocks onto the frozen surface scattered across the shoreline. In the distance, where the ice had melted, hundreds of birds floated undisturbed, safe from the disturbance of anyone who tried to venture out on the thinning ice.
We walked in comfortable silence, sharing a thought or two here and there, soaking in the tranquility, fully immersed in the stillness of the moment. It was exactly what I needed—breathing in the damp air, feeling the earth beneath my feet, existing in a space that was a comfortable distance from the stress of daily life. A little over a mile into our walk, we reached a gate marking a restricted area maintained by the Department of Agriculture. This was the end of the journey unless we went down closer to the edge of the water and continued on the rocky bank. Turning back, I felt more at ease, trying to remind myself to be grateful for the time outdoors and the time with my sweetheart.
By the time we returned to the car, my body reminded me that I had reached my limit for the day. My back tightened, and the surgical area throbbed. It wasn’t unbearable, just a sign that I had done enough for today. And as if on cue, the universe gave us a sign it had been waiting for us to finish, and drops of rain began to tap against the windshield. The storm was coming back our way.
While the days walks weren’t a long run up a steep mountain, it was exactly what I needed. A few miles outside, reconnecting with nature, and a welcome contrast to the pain and frustration of healing process I have been dealing with. And now, as I sit here the morning after, listening to the rain still falling outside, I’m reminded of how deeply I need this—how much the outdoors feeds my soul and keeps my mind in balance. I have my rain jacket close at hand, ready for another opportunity to step outside for more much needed deep breaths of fresh air, knowing how important it will be to help me continue to heal.
And even though I still have a long road ahead of me before I can return to running for hours in the mountains, I’ll take these small steps gratefully. Each walk, each breath of fresh air, brings me closer to where I know I truly belong.. outside.
