The Double-Edged Sword of Nature
When my friend proposed backpacking in the White Mountains to our group of crew friends, I was a little hesitant. The most hiking I had ever done was in the Blue Hills of Massachusetts, which hardly qualifies as hiking. With a little bit of convincing, the trip officially commenced.
It was August of 2020, right after things started to open up during the pandemic. The world reeled from the crisis and inequality that bubbled to the surface. The only respite seemed to be in nature. After creating extensive spreadsheets, maps, and trips to REI, my friends and I drove up to New Hampshire from Brookline, Massachusetts. We planned on hiking the Presidential Traverse. We would hit Ethan’s Pond the first night, Mizpah Hut the second night, followed by RMS Perch, and then we would hike back down the mountain where my friend’s father would pick us up. In total, it would be a four-day endeavor that would change my mindset and leave me desperate to hike more just to feel the power of nature again.
I distinctly remember 30 minutes into the hike wondering what I had signed myself up for. My 25-pound pack was becoming more noticeable with each step. My hiking boots felt like ski boots on my feet. I was used to running sneakers but had switched them out for clunky shoes that offered grip and ankle support. The wet, slippery rocks forced me to be extremely careful with each step, making it more of a mental challenge than a physical one. I constantly feared twisting my ankle or knee and being left in the middle of the mountains. My mind flashed to the story of a man who cut his arm off after becoming stuck in a rocky chasm so he could escape and survive. Clearly, I was not built for this– I could never cut my own arm off, I thought.
We reached the hut at Ethan’s Pond a few hours before sunset and propped up the tents. I took a trip to a stream and filtered the water for us to drink. We put all our potent items in the bear box and called it a night. The first night turned out to be extremely cold, and I found myself underprepared, having forgotten that summer nights in the mountains are nothing like those in the city. I awoke to the sun’s rays at 6 am. That day, we would ascend 3,320 feet and then descend 2,400 feet to Mizpah Hut — several times, we thought we had reached the top of a mountain when we had barely ascended.
Despite getting lost a few times, I began to appreciate the hike and the views. There was nothing quite like being out in nature with hardly anyone around — no light pollution, no noise. Not even the sounds of cars on the highways. All I could see were mountains in the distance and it felt like I had reached some sort of mythical world — like Jack climbing the beanstalk.
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I forgot that there was a raging pandemic happening. I forgot about everything that had been on my mind. They all seemed so miniscule, so stupid. I felt humbled and for the first time truly appreciated all the nature around me. How was it that these mountains had come to be? Why did I find them so beautiful? Society was reduced to its simplest form, and I was thrilled by the thought of traversing away from civilization. I felt truly independent for the first time in my life. We had no cell service. We were reliant on one another — on the off chance that anything bad were to happen, there would be no leaving anyone behind.
The next day, we planned to summit five mountains, including Mt. Washington. We started climbing Mt. Washington in the fog with high spirits, only to realize we had three more mountains left. That day, we hiked 11.5 hours. The last one and a half miles took us 90 minutes because of the terrain coupled with our exhaustion. Every time we saw a sign with the distance to the perch, we were humbled by how little progress we were making. The daylight was fading, and I felt like I was in a cruel version of Groundhog Day — except instead of waking up on the same day, I would never reach my final destination. I became so hysterical that when the three of us decided to take a short break on the side of the mountain, I started uncontrollably laughing. Suddenly, that laughter turned to tears, and we found ourselves collectively crying. We were all exhausted. I remember looking down and seeing nothing but the clouds and thinking it’d be a shame if I fell off.
I trudged along, aware of the gaping hole next to me. One faulty step on these jagged, unstable rocks, and I’d plummet to my death. Finally, we made it to the perch, and I felt two emotions: exhaustion and pure joy. I had earned that Perch. Those solid wooden planks underneath my feet felt like a luxury. It’s funny what humans get used to. Days ago, I would’ve thought sleeping on a wooden platform was anything but luxury.
That day will always be ingrained in my memory for the gruel it created. For the helplessness I felt on the side of the mountain. For the reminder of nature as a double-edged sword — its power to destroy, but also to be a place of solace. Individually, humans are nothing compared to nature. Nature can easily wipe one of us out if we are left alone. Only when we come together do we dominate nature and deteriorate the ecosystems that have been around for billions of years. Today, humans are so far removed from the wild that the most privileged don’t even know how to do things our ancestors did daily. I can’t make a fire and don’t know which direction to go in, north, south, west, or east without a map.
It’s shocking that in just a few centuries, humans have learned to dissociate from nature and have inflicted so much damage that we might be bringing about an unprecedented ecological collapse. There is a careful balance of life from everything biotic to abiotic, yet we take it for granted. Nature is like a spider’s web that is intricate and beautiful, but only those who look closely fully understand how impressive it is. Living in New York City, it’s easy to forget that we hail from the earth. Most civilizations are so far removed from our primitive ways that we no longer appreciate everything nature has to offer at no cost.
We humans have removed ourselves from nature. We go glamping. We can easily escape the grit of nature. After a hike, we return to our homes which are sturdily built and full of frivolous items that would never be found lying around in nature. We turn on the shower and are hit by warm, clean water.
When policymakers and leaders come together to discuss climate change, they do not envision themselves physically in nature. They only see facts and figures about carbon emissions, GDP, and job loss. The horrific ways humans are killing the planet have become numbing. We are so far removed from what has spawned us that it’s hard for us to care about nature. Solving the issue of climate change is daunting and seems impossible because of learned helplessness. We lost our connection to nature as a society when we started building products that look nothing like Earth’s resources. Those who pollute the most are not reminded daily that we are a product of our ecosystems, and unless we do something fast, ice ages show that nature has a history of conquering all species.
Words by Zoe Tseng, RCC National Environment Leadership Fellow
