Last autumn, I fell into a rhythm of walking every day — at least 10,000 steps a day, to be precise. It was not intentional; a few weeks in, my fitness tracker informed me that I hadn’t missed a day, and so I simply decided to keep going.
When I first wrote about this walking streak back in January, it had spanned 78 days – most of which were nights, as darkness comes early that time of year. Somehow, I’ve now made it to 261 days in a row, though my walks have taken on a different tenor as of late.
Gone are the days of leaning into sideways sleet or discovering otter slides in the snow. Now that summer’s here, I’m dodging heat advisories, bugs, thunderstorms, bugs and air so heavy you could chew it. Did I mention the bugs?
In winter, after-dark outings were a necessity, as there literally weren’t enough hours in the day. Now, I seek out evening walks for the respite they offer – from the heat, from the humidity, from the deer flies – and because summer nights are an enchantment. Sometimes the energy is wild: loons yodeling, barred owls caterwauling, coyotes yipping, bullfrogs lowing.
Other nights are still, punctuated only by the magical Morse code of fireflies glowing in the treetops.
Often, I’ll walk in darkness down my quiet road, only reaching for my flashlight when I hear a rustle in the woods or see the widening beams of oncoming headlights. A few weeks ago, on one of those hushed evenings, I heard the faintest sound, turned on my light and found myself 15 feet from a fawn, spots and all. She regarded me with mild curiosity but did not dart away. I got the sense that if I’d moved slowly enough, I probably could have touched her.
A couple nights earlier, walking down that same road in a dense fog, I stumbled upon dozens of tiny wood frogs – no bigger than my thumbnail, some with tail nubs left over from their lives as tadpoles – leaving their vernal pool for the very first time.
I share these stories not because my road is special, but because every road, yard, park and patch of green is home to small, wild moments like this, but you won’t find them unless you go outside, and often.
Though the nature of my daily strolls has changed with the seasons, one thing has stayed the same. I have never regretted going for a walk, even when — perhaps especially when — it’s the last thing I feel like doing. Time and again, those turn out to be the most-extraordinary walks of all.
In late May, after dragging myself out into the rain on a night when an early bedtime was insistently calling my name, I met a late-season spotted salamander, migrating out of her vernal pool weeks after the rest of her kin. I spend much of March and April shuttling amphibians across busy roads alongside scores of dedicated Salamander Crossing Brigade volunteers, but it’s rare that I get a quiet moment alone with a spottie in a place where cars are of little concern. It felt like a gift.
In June, the rain just kept coming, testing my resolve. The couch beckoned. Grumbling, I tugged on my raincoat, opened the door and was instantly greeted by a painted turtle evaluating our yard as a potential nest site. Two minutes later, just across the street, I found a snapping turtle laying eggs in my neighbor’s garden. Until I stepped outside, I’d had no idea either one of them was there.
The night before I wrote this, as if to underscore the point, I ended a long, muggy, buggy day 1,000 steps short of my goal. It was already 10 p.m. I may or may not have grouched to my husband, “I’m going out for my stupid walk now.” I calculated exactly how far I needed to go to achieve 10,000 steps and was determined to walk only that distance before heading home to wash the bug spray off.
But the air had finally cooled; the stars were out, and once I was moving, I decided to stroll just a little further. Rounding a bend in the road, my flashlight caught eyeshine. It was a bobcat, wiggling her tail, with a bobkitten bouncing behind.
Lesson learned (and relearned) — when in doubt, go outside.
Studies have shown that walking – and, more broadly, time spent outdoors – boosts your heart health and immune function, improves concentration and problem-solving abilities and leads to better sleep. A few years ago, Virginia Sturm, professor of neurology and psychiatry at UC San Francisco, and Dacher Keltner, professor of psychology at UC Berkley, took a deeper look at how walking outside can also support emotional wellbeing through a practice they call “awe-walking.”
For their study, Sturm and Keltner enlisted 60 people over the age of 75 and asked each of them to take a 15-minute walk once a week for eight weeks. The participants were instructed to take a selfie on every walk, and to answer some questions about their mood and “emotional experience” after each outing. Half of the group went for normal walks. The other half were given a special set of directions — go somewhere new or especially beautiful. If you’re visiting a familiar place, try to see it through fresh eyes. (I’m reminded of my friend and colleague Phil Brown, who once marveled, “Imagine being the very first person to ever see a blue jay.”)
Shift your gaze between small details (the textures and colors of a single leaf) and the expanse (the pattern made by all the leaves shuffling in the wind). Engage your sense of wonder.
Over time, the people who went for these “awe walks” reported less distress, more joy, greater feelings of empathy and kindness toward others and less pain in their bodies. The more they practiced seeking awe on their weekly walks, the deeper that awe became.
Over the course of the study, the selfies also documented an increase in smile intensity on the part of the awe-walkers. Even more intriguing, over time, the “self” took up a smaller proportion of the frame for those taking awe walks, a sign that they were beginning to focus more on the world around them than on themselves.
I’m mindful, always, that walking is not possible or enjoyable for everyone, and although Keltner and his colleagues did not assess the impacts of awe-sitting or awe-birding or awe-listening, I imagine they’re much the same. In the end, it’s not so much about the walking, I think, but the attention – and taking time each day to dwell in the more-than-human world.
I confess that I haven’t fully embraced the practice of awe-walking just yet – awe can be tough to come by when you’re running a gauntlet of pugnacious deer flies – but I’m working on it. A milkweed blossom here. A toadlet there. And who knows what wonders await just around the bend in the road…
Brett Amy Thelen is science director at the Harris Center for Conservation Education.