Dear Dartmouth

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Apr 25, 2020 | Student Life | 0 comments

Thoughts on the Outdoors

Student Life | 0 comments

Written by Sarah Jewett

Dear Dartmouth,

On the back of a dogsled, I threw my body so far to the right that I readied myself to tumble into the snowbank. The weighted branches of pines and bare oaks lined the trail – the scuffs of paws marred the crisp snow beneath us. The dogs caught sight of the sled in front of us and began to make chase. Their lean, athletic bodies pounding the snow powered us faster, faster, until we’re forced to dig into the brakes, a pair of metal hooks. My legs shook from holding back thousands of years of instinct and adrenaline. I tried to memorize the feeling: my hot breaths wetting the bandanna covering my nose and mouth, my hands gripping the metal through my mittens, my feet barely wedged on, the muscles of my abdomen firing to keep me stable. All I could hear were the yips and whines of the dogs.  When we arrived at the snowmobile lot again, we piled into the van for the drive back to the Second College Grant. After a panting silence, we laughed and watched the frozen river crackle along the roads of northern New Hampshire. 

I stared up at the rock scrambles above me. The peak of Mount Adams was still out of sight, but every few steps my legs jiggled and the backpack, with its computer and planner replaced by water bottle and granola bars, dug heavier on my back. I looked around me. The whistle of the wind was nearly visible on the sheer, rocky cliff to my right, rustling the boughs of a pine forest like a ghost. Hazier was the Presidential Range before us, smooth in places and jagged in others, painting the horizon in lines of grey and green and brown. At the summit, my breaths came short from exertion and pride. 
I took in the smiles of my friends and tossed them the snacks from my bag, and we settled into the silence for a few minutes of bliss. Later that night, I snorted back tears after a fall on the icy creek that served as our trail down the mountain. I strapped microspikes onto my boots and continued, gingerly; now the exertion came from watching my feet in the waning light. My fatigue weighed on me, and in these hours steps came heavy. But when we piled into my friend’s car, sleep didn’t come, instead smiling at our pictures and humming along to a CD.
I spent more time outdoors at Dartmouth than I expected. But what’s the maxim, life will always be different than you expected?  It seems particularly true right now, but even in the late fall, I realized that my college experience would be empty if I wasn’t going to lace up hiking boots and spend the night in a cabin warmed by a wood stove every once in a while.

I felt comfortable in a community whose weird traditions loosened the grip I held around myself. I could get off campus, stretch my legs, and see some corners of the beautiful mountains I’m calling home for a few years. I’ve always felt the stillness of the forest and rocks with a clear mind. I could do this smiling through my heavy breathing and gasping a laugh at the frame pack in front of me.

I miss Dartmouth. 
We all do, right? But the wellness I felt from hiking and spending time outdoors is not left with the mess in my dorm. I can see the same shining faces via the interweb, but it’s not the same as curling up in front of a campfire. I’ve got to find that one on my own. What follows is a list of what makes me feel that same peace of mind:
  • Taking a walk. I notice the way cloudy sunlight dulls the trees’ leaves, the yellow pollen that floats through the Virginia air, the crunch of pine needles in piles along the road. I recommend pretending a walk is like writing a poem and use your five senses (maybe not taste, unless you find a good-lookin’ and scientifically safe berry bush).
  • Sitting by a window. This is probably the most accessible thing for all of us. At different times of day, the heat of the sun warms your face and lights the dust of the pane. Even the view changes. Yesterday, a guy on a skateboard went by and did a 360. That’s cool! I will ask him how to do that when I see him again!
  • Reading a book that has ~nature~ in it. I think this is better than looking at pictures online because there is a peace in the visual blankness of words on a page yet the richness of an image you can picture. Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens evokes a place close to home for me, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where marsh and swamp and ocean meet. You can almost smell the peat!
  • Stare at the face(s) of your quarantine buddy(s).  Nature is in other people’s live, fleshy faces too. 
There is self-care to be found in nature everywhere. Go outside with caution and remember that we all come from this Earth and will all return to it. Memento mori. Maybe that was grim but thinking about mortality can sometimes be very comforting too. Take a hike, sit by a window, read!  We’re all going to die someday.

Much love,

Sarah

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