A Gentle Walk on a Midwinter’s Day

My 2-year-old laid in several puddles today. It was glorious.

Being a parent of young children will teach you the hard way the major benefits to getting outdoors. Our family can be so cranky, so ornery, so flustered and hot in the moments before striking out into the outdoors but as soon as we cross that threshold, those grumpy feelings all but melt away.

While this fussiness has some origin in being bundled in too many layers in a too warm house, it also has a lot to do with human nature. We are meant to be exposed to the elements. Nature experiences can calm us and improve focus and mood. A walk-in nature with a friend can lead to better conversation and deeper feelings of connection (1).

We live in Wisconsin in the US midwest, a place of historically frigid winters, i.e. lots of snow and very cold temperatures. But when it is safe for the 2-year-old, we try to get outside every day. Most days we play in our yard or go for short walks through town.

Being outdoors makes me feel better. I find my children become more enchanting too. Perhaps I’m handling the ups and downs of parenting with more grace, and maybe they are being refreshed by our time outdoors too. Thus, I’ve relished the last few weeks of nice Winter weather.

The 2-year-old and I were given an opportunity. It was a school day for his older brother and the weather was 35 degrees Fahrenheit and cloudy, the wind was low and the humidity high — perfect for a jaunt in the woods.

When you get yourself outdoors, you will have an experience. It will be unlike anything you can experience inside your home. For now you can keep your boots clean, come along with us… Explore the low places and look up high; as we have a tactile experience of the tantalizingly wet, cold and muddy world of a January thaw.

After a gentle drive down the slope to the park, you first join us in the parking lot. We nestle our car amongst the other visitor’s vehicles. After releasing the child from his car seat and tucking him into his jacket, snow pants, hat, and gloves, we look to the East and the lake. A large hill shelters the parking lot to the South and toddler-width runs of ice remain on that side, reaching towards the north where they evidently melt. A clear path remains to the paved walk but that is not the path we take.

We prefer to slip and slide along, him grabbing my hand through waterproof mittens and insisting we climb over rock and concrete barriers to muck about in the drainage area at the end of the parking lot.

“Nope,” I refuse and half dragging, half gentle coercion, we arrive at the start of the paved path. Now here is where he catches sight of the play structure located about halfway down the hill. Ah! Let’s play! Rushing to the playground, we abandon the path for the grass.

Patches of snow remain and the ground is wet but not sopping. Under the grass the ground is still frozen and hard under our feet. We gaze at the frozen lumps of snow that remain on the hill calling out to the baby dragons we imagine there.

Up the steps the little one climbs his saggy snow pants strapped across shoulders and under coat, crotch hanging around his boots. He looks behind and calls. Up I climb holding hands as we run across a wobbling bridge and stop, eeerrr, to look at a very wet slide.

Somehow I convince him to avoid the slide today — “Let’s go check out the lake.”

We turn and race across the bridge again bouncing together. And make our way down the stairs. Two people run by — trail runners heading towards the parking lot — and he stares, their bright clothes and jaunty bouncing holding him entranced. My hand tugs him gently along and we make our way towards the lake.

We traverse the layer of snow and ice that marks the descent onto the sandy beach. Most of the snow has melted from the sand and there is an outline of clear water along the lake’s edge but ice remains across much of the lake. A pair of sloppy footprints mark the path someone trekked during the ice’s more solid past. The picnic table we’ve enjoyed sitting at during many summer lunches currently resides in the water. Whether it was pushed or dragged in there by an act of human or nature we do not know but we do know that the 2-year-old would like very much to drag it out.

Several crows call overhead and a hawk swoops and rides an updraft in the distance. Are the crows telling each other about the hawk, I wonder aloud. I ask my walking partner what the crows are saying and he answers “caw! caw! caw!”

The next distraction is a small round inlet near the base of the beach and its thin stream to the lake. It looks like the trench kids would make to flood the moat of their sand castles but upon closer inspection you can see tiny bubbles forming in the sand and floating to the surface of the water where they pop and begin anew at the bottom. A constant slow flow of water from a natural spring. The bottom of the spring’s pool is lined with the knobby, brown leaves of an oak and fuzzy deep green moss. The movement in the pool attracts our attention and we watch the bubbling of the water and its slow, mysterious flow towards the lake.

The air around springs has a special freshness and strange mystery enriched as it is with the cool moist air of underground caverns. I imagine crystal lined passageways perforating the ground beneath our feet, water pushing, lifting, dropping, flowing through cycles without end. I’m feeling really calm and at peace, the cold air revivifying. The simple results of wonder with nature doing its work.

Like the water in the stream, we push on, back up the beach we climb and around a patch of restored prairie back to the paved path. Another walking duo strides past, chatting with each other in voices the lilt and bounce across the landscape. They look at us and smile the knowing smiles of a couple grandmas who have “been there.” We exchange “hellos” and my walking partner notices a good stick. A thin branch about his height covered in lichen, he pulls it from the snow, knocking it against the concrete, as he places weight on it breaks into pieces, losing height a little at a time until it is discarded beside the path.

Walking along the path the concrete transitions into gravel, still quite solid under our feet. I feel confident in continuing without causing large foot holes and the resultant headache for the volunteers who maintain this path.

The path is darker here and more crowded with trees, to our left there is a sharp slope down to the lake and we bring our attention back to birds. A chickadee stirs in the undergrowth near the edge of the lake, we bend low to get a better view. He asks to go down there and I explain it is too steep and too wet, it can be dangerous to go off the walking path and to get wet in the wintertime — this is the place for humans and that is the place for birds. He seems to comprehend this and growing a little green says “I want to be a chickadee.”

“I’d like to be a chickadee too.”

We follow the path further and I spot a nice log slowly, microscopically transforming to dirt with the help of moss, bugs and other unseen creatures. The green of the moss is the brightest thing in the forest. Closer inspection of the moss reveals a miniature forest of its own with shaggy green tendrils reaching to the sun, much like the moss, we can’t see it but we know the sun is there — its warmth raising moisture to the air where it caresses our skin.

Further down the path, we find an offshoot — a slippery path through the trees which I know from previous walks leads to a bridge over the creek feeding the lake. We take this short treacherous path, holding hands solidly and placing feet gingerly into the bark speckled snow that lines the path. I want to share this bridge with my child for a moment, I want him to see the water flow and for us to let the stream wash us.

Here we are. More patches of green catch our attention as the water ripples over patches of watercress and duckweed sways on the surface. The rocks under the water are beautiful, slick and shiny calling to us both but I hold us back, feet on moist wood transfixed to this spot, souls riding wildly over the rapids.

My son lays down to look closer and announces… he has poop in his diaper… Well poop… literally.

Yep it can be that abrupt, the transition back to caretaking mode. I gather him into my arms, carrying him as I carefully trace our way back up the path to the gravel, to the paved path and up into the parking lot.

This child weighs about as much as a bag of salt for the water softener, so I get my exercise and a nice sore hip out of this trek back to the car, only to discover — after disrobing the child in layers stretched out in the trunk of the hatchback — there was in fact no poop in that diaper. Oh well, I think, this at least made for a wonderfully simple transition back to the car and into the car seat. All the while he is vocalizing very loudly his desire for a snack, like now! So back up the hill we drive, back into town and a little cafe where we can each enjoy a warm mug as we await his brothers return from school.

Writing this, I am awash in gratitude for this day, for this time spent on a child led adventure. There is nothing that gives me more joy and happiness in life than taking a childlike perspective in a place of natural beauty. Whether you have a pint-sized guide or not, please make some time to get yourself out and into nature. The peace you find will not only benefit you but your family, friends and your community as well. Take that break from work, look out a window, make time for a short walk around the block, or seek out an opportunity to really indulge and get yourself muddy and wet in the great outdoors.

1. G. N. Bratman, C. B. Anderson, M. G. Berman, B. Cochran, S. de Vries, J. Flanders, C. Folke, H. Frumkin, J. J. Gross, T. Hartig, P. H. Kahn Jr., M. Kuo, J. J. Lawler, P. S. Levin, T. Lindahl, A. Meyer-Lindenberg, R. Mitchell, Z. Ouyang, J. Roe, L. Scarlett, J. R. Smith, M. van den Bosch, B. W. Wheeler, M. P. White, H. Zheng, G. C. Daily, Nature and mental health: An ecosystem service perspective. Sci. Adv. 5, eaax0903 (2019)