Why We Walk the Wild Places
There is a mystery to long walks in the world’s grand places. Across continents and cultures—from the dusty paths of the Camino de Santiago to the granite spine of the West Highland Way, from Norway’s wind-scoured coastlines to Austria’s Alpine passes—people set off with boots laced and packs loaded, drawn by a longing that resists easy explanation. It is more than tourism. More than exercise. The terrain seems to speak to something older than language.
Something in us recognises these places.
We might call it instinct, or memory, or something spiritual. The Japanese word shizen (自然) gestures toward this: not simply “nature,” but the sense of things as they are, unforced and unmade by human intention. To walk in wild places is to step briefly back into that order. Another word, komorebi (木漏れ日), describes sunlight filtering through leaves—an ordinary miracle that, on a long walk, feels like revelation.
We live surrounded by noise—notifications, deadlines, expectations. The mind is rarely still. Yet research in environmental psychology shows that time in natural environments reduces cortisol, lowers heart rate, and restores attention. “Attention Restoration Theory,” pioneered by Stephen and Rachel Kaplan, suggests that nature holds our focus gently, without demanding it, allowing the mind to recover from fatigue.
There is also shinrin-yoku (森林浴)—“forest bathing”—a practice named by Qing Li. His research shows that time among trees can boost immune function, improve mood, and reduce anxiety. The forest, it seems, is not merely scenery. It is medicine.
But the healing of long walks goes deeper than physiology.
There is a loneliness in modern life that is difficult to name—not the absence of people, but the absence of depth. On the trail, something shifts. Strangers become companions. A shared stretch of path becomes a shared story. You meet someone over a cup of tea, compare the ache in your legs, and within an hour you are speaking of things that would take months elsewhere.
You have known this yourself—on the slopes of Goat Fell, along the West Highland Way, in Norway’s quiet expanses. There is a particular kind of friendship that forms in these places—unguarded, unforced. Perhaps because the usual markers of identity fall away. No one asks what you do. Only where you’ve come from, and how far you’re going.
And somehow, that is enough.
But there’s another dimension to walking in nature. The Japanese word yūgen (幽玄) speaks of a subtle, profound beauty—something felt rather than fully understood. Long walks are full of this quality: a ridge dissolving into mist, the hush before rain, the way the land stretches endlessly, indifferent yet welcoming. These moments resist explanation, but they shape us nonetheless.
The natural world has always been a setting for encounter. Not because God is confined to wilderness, but because we are less distracted there. As a Christian, I find myself walking with God in nature. I look at the colours, the beauty of a creature like a butterfly, the majesty of mountains rising from the water and I am filled with awe and appreciation. The Celtic tradition spoke of “thin places”—landscapes where the boundary between heaven and earth feels porous. Walking through such places, one does not necessarily find answers, but one becomes more open to them.
Walking itself becomes a kind of prayer.
Not the structured, spoken kind, but something quieter. Each step a rhythm. Each breath a line. The body moves, and the mind follows. The noise recedes. What remains is presence.
And in that presence, we begin to see more clearly.
Long-distance walking strips life to its essentials. You carry only what you need. Every unnecessary item becomes a burden. This reveals the weight we carry off the trail—the obligations, expectations, and identities we cling to. Out there, these things loosen. You are no longer the role you perform. You are simply a person moving through a landscape.
Vulnerable. Dependent. Alive.
Without distraction, the mind turns inward. Old memories surface. Grief, long deferred, finds space to breathe. But unlike forced introspection, walking allows these things to move. You are not sitting still with them—you are carrying them forward, step by step.
This is why walking heals.
Not because it solves everything, but because it creates the conditions in which healing can begin. Movement becomes metaphor. The path becomes possibility.
Modern research increasingly points to awe as a transformative emotion. Psychologists like Dacher Keltner describe awe as something that diminishes the ego and expands our sense of connection—to others, to the world, to something larger than ourselves. Wild places are uniquely suited to evoke this. Standing on a ridge, looking out over miles of untouched land, one feels both small and deeply held.
It is a paradox that comforts rather than diminishes.
The great irony of pilgrimage is that it often begins as escape but ends as return. We leave behind the noise of life only to rediscover what mattered within it. Somewhere along the trail, we meet a version of ourselves that had been obscured—not lost, but waiting.
The child who marvelled at the sky.
The soul that still longs for meaning.
The quiet voice that had been drowned out.
We come back carrying something difficult to explain. Not answers, exactly, but a reorientation—a sense that life is not merely something to manage, but something to walk through attentively.
The trail does not end when we return home.
Perhaps this is why people return to the trail again and again.
Not to conquer distance, but to remember something essential:
That we are not separate from the world, but part of it.
That solitude need not mean loneliness.
That friendship can arise in unexpected places.
That the soul, like the body, needs space to move.
The world’s grand places—its mountains, coastlines, forests, and open paths—do not demand that we understand them. Only that we walk.
And those who do understand something wordless, something enduring:
That the journey outward is also a journey inward.
And once begun, it never truly ends.