This usually involved a long hike through the woods or prairie or swamp of their choice, the only stipulation being a rule against talking too much. For a long time, I would bask more in the glory of the day off and extra parental attention than in the natural wonders around me. Consequently, I listened minimally to what my parents tried to teach us about the environment we were exploring, something I rue to this day as I struggle through my biology major. My usual idea of communing with nature at first involved what we could fit up my brothers' noses, and who could run the fastest down the trails. Now that I'm older, I am beginning to understand my parents' fascination with the natural world.
Some people turn to drugs, others to exercise, still others to religion to find refuge and strength.
My family hiked. Nature exists as a system that is changing, and is to a point independent of us. It has depth and permanence and an intricate balance that will outlive memory. The gift my parents tried to give us through forced marches, the wilderness treks, the camping trips, and the teachings is a sense of finding solace in nature that extends beyond its physical presence. Aldo Leopold writes that recreational development is a job not of building roads into lovely country, but of building receptivity into the still unlovely human mind.