Aimless wandering

08/19/2019

In the midst of a dreary, rain-drenched hike in a beautiful, berry-filled oasis earlier this month, my hiking partner and I turned around 2 miles short of the end, and not for the first time. I have bailed on three hikes during my time here in Alaska, completely blowing up my prior count (for the record, the only other, non-Alaskan hike I didn’t push to finish was Sourdough Mountain in North Cascades National Park, and that was because the top was still coated in snow and ice).

But amid all the “real” hikes I’ve planned and either persevered through or pitched out of during my time in Alaska, the most memorable ambles here have been just that: aimless, structureless jaunts. Sometimes there’s an ideal goal or endpoint — like saving more berries than I eat while perusing a path along Sheep Creek or getting to a serene lake secreted away down an overgrown trail — but oftentimes it’s a fluid trek, without the pressure to reach a preordained mile marker or set a certain pace.

The importance of that free space and time seems obvious, but the realization was not, at least for me. Planning my free time had slowly become my modus operandi, but too much planning takes out even the possibility of surprise, spontaneity or serendipity. A psychoanalyst I spoke with for a piece crystalized the realization when he talked about “the value of aimless drift,” and how allowing the body to wander also lets the mind wander and reconnect with itself. If you don’t allow yourself that free, unburdened space, the routine can overtake the deeper reasons and resonances of day-to-day life. 

And so, I’ve tried to embrace the unknown and unplanned more in the last few months, or at least to not let my plans drive me. But of course there is a balance to strike: without some routines, I would feel unmoored. And without some semblance of planning or research, some things would never happen. The possibilities would never be known. I think I’m getting closer to the sweet spot, though. Stopping to listen to what I want or need rather than thoughtlessly charging into action is a big step for me, after maintaining a constant state of motion and following a never-ending to-do list for the past few years. 

It’ll be hard to keep that progress back in the hustle and bustle of D.C. I’m way past my halfway point here in Alaska, and hurtling headlong into my last month here is making me think critically about how to preserve the things I’ve learned and loved about living up in Talkeetna. Is it possible to keep boundaries around my free time in a city that’s always moving and shaking? It’s so easy to get caught up in the grind. How will I preserve aimless wandering and purposeless time when I’m not surrounded by majestic natural wonders? Rock Creek Park is no Denali. I guess all I can do is work to make it a frame of mind, and not just a place and time.

I still haven’t had any great big ideas about what comes next, professionally. I came in idealistically thinking that the next thing for me would reveal itself amid the beauty of Alaskan mountain ranges and the days of dough. I knew that it would likely not be a forever calling; we are dynamic beings in a fast-moving world, and it’s foreign to think I will have just one career. But I thought that I would know, somehow, intrinsically, what my next step toward happiness would be. Instead, now I see more possibilities than ever. I do miss experimenting with bread, and find myself looking at bakery job postings in D.C. But I’ve also enjoyed dipping my toes in local news, getting to know area kids while facilitating outdoor learning trips, and writing. So, with or without a decision, I will be returning to D.C. on Sept. 21 — 4 months and 13 days after I left it — perhaps to continue the aimless drift.

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