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© Copyright 2007, Mountain Kids Magazine, LLC

Gunnison and Crested Butte Colorado Family Activity Guide -- Summer 2006
Feature: Wonder Walk
In Celebration of Children and Nature

By Shelley Read

My daughter runs ahead of me on the narrow trail alongside Cement Creek, her blonde braid bouncing beneath her sunhat. She navigates the path's familiar twists and obstacles with ease, pausing occasionally to point and shout out "lichen!" or "larkspur!" or to suddenly crouch and examine an insect that has caught her eye. Her little brother follows her, less surefooted but equally enthusiastic, equally free in this cool mountain breeze. They detour to the edge of the river to throw a handful of willow leaves into an eddy and watch the green jewels circle; they clutch long sticks and carve their names in the mud. Back on the trail, they are running again, until a tempting boulder needs scrambling, a butterfly beckons a chase, or a log needs overturning for an inspection of the squirming larvae buried beneath.

I, like so many parents, believe deeply in the importance of sharing and experiencing nature with my children. When I first became a mother, I couldn't wait to take my daughter into the wilderness. I imagined myself armed with wildflower guides, lists of common mammals, quotes from Henry David Thoreau, and topo maps. My mind spun with all I would teach her just as soon as she could don her first pair of hiking boots. I pictured us soon thereafter climbing to the top of the mountain for which she was named, keeping lists of migratory birds and native species of flora, learning the details of local geology.

For the past eight years, however, I have instead patiently followed my children at a snail's pace as they've zigzagged wildly through woods, meadows, canyons, and up (and down, and up, and across) mountainsides. We've started off on ambitious hikes and never made it past the fascinating anthill on the first curve of the trail. We've spent hours finding river rocks in the interesting shapes of hearts, turtles, and bicycle seats. We've wallowed in the mud like hippos; run through a field excitedly tallying different kinds of animal droppings (6); searched all afternoon for an autumn leaf with equal parts green, red, and yellow; spent an hour rescuing a drowning moth from a pond and then finding the perfect spot for the poor guy to dry out.

I still carry those guide books and quotes in the bottom of my backpack, just in case, and dream of the day when we will reach the top of high peaks together, but I now clearly understand that it isn't about all of that. And I clearly understand this: in the many hours we've spent together in nature, my kids have certainly taught me more than I have taught them. They have showed me that it is more important to see, hear, smell, and feel-with my hands as well as my heart-than it is to know some scientific fact or to reach the summit. They have taught me to slow down- waaaaay down- and to look closely. If ever I need a reminder that the journey is indeed the destination, I simply follow my children and their friends on a walk through the forest, and I am always wiser for it.

When we consider an adult's role in the important endeavor of sharing nature with children, we must remember to be humble and to honor what children instinctively already know. Their inborn sense of wonder and their open, joyful hearts will intuitively guide them as they explore wild places. One of the greatest gifts we can offer a child is the freedom to do so on his or her own terms, without the need to rush, to name, or to get to the top of the trail if the edges of the trail prove far more intriguing. A child's marvelous capacity for perceiving the extraordinary in the ordinary, for finding genuine delight in the minute and inconspicuous, can authentically guide not only the child through a wild landscape but guide the adult companion as well. If we open our hearts to their wisdom, children can inspire adults to be fully present in the preciousness of the moment, to rediscover an awe for mystery, subtle beauty, and an eternal truth only nature can reveal.

As biologist, environmental activist, and wise woman Rachel Carson wrote in A Sense of Wonder, "A child's world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood." She goes on to say, "Exploring nature with your child is largely a matter of becoming receptive to what lies all around you. It is learning again to use your eyes, ears, nostrils, and finger tips, opening up to the disused channels of sensory impression." Carson reminds us that by offering frequent and simple opportunities for children to nurture their innate love for nature alongside a caring adult, we enrich not only their young lives but also our own.

Every step into a wild place allows the possibility for the sheer joy of discovery to well up within us, both young and old. There will be plenty of time and desire for scientific facts as a child ages and his or her heartfelt attachment to nature grows. As Carson writes, "Once the emotions have been aroused-a sense of the beautiful, the excitement of the new and unknown, a feeling of sympathy, pity, admiration, or love-then we wish for knowledge about the object of our emotional response. Once found, it has lasting meaning." It is in the slow, seemingly aimless wonder walks with our children, where each flower and rock and insect boggles the mind and elevates the spirit, that this lasting and intrinsic meaning can be most vitally cultivated.

I watch my daughter and son stray again from the trail to the edge of Cement Creek. They make some determined attempts at skipping stones and then wade hand in hand into the frigid, ankle-deep edge waters to straddle a downed log like a horse. I don't worry about the lunch warming in my backpack and the length of trail yet between us and the aspen grove where we plan to eventually picnic. We have already made it to our destination. For my children are completely absorbed in wildness, their own, this river's, this forest's. Their deep connection with the natural world need not be explained to them, reverence for the earth need not be preached. They are living it, through their squeals of joy and rapt attention and free flowing spirits. My job as their parent is to simply get in that river with them. My role is to let that cold water wrap around my ankle and happily howl at how alive it makes me feel.

When not chasing her kids through the wilderness, Shelley Read is an educator and writer. She taught environmental studies and English at Western State College for over a decade and is now the Director of the Slate River School.