Words and Photos by Peter Gierlach - YouTube: Slow and Strenuous
When the speed of the modern world becomes too much, there’s a practice that helps me slow down, breathe, and let my mind unwind:
Forest bathing.
No, this does not involve me skinny dipping in an isolated forest lake. That’s saved for Fridays.
Coined in the 1980s by a Japanese doctor looking for alternative methods to improve his patients’ health outcomes, it supplies data to prove what we already know:
The more time we spend immersed in nature, the better off we are as humans.
In 1982, Dr. Tomohide Akiyama found that the mental health of his patients improved when engaged in this practice, which he called shinrin-yoku. Instead of mindlessly running through a forest, or walking through while distracted, forest bathing invites the subject to slow stroll through a wooded area, engaging all of their senses with the landscape, and being fully present in the moment. The purpose is to “take it all in” — through sight, smell, sound, scent, and even taste. It’s not about chasing summits or hitting benchmarks; it’s about forgetting yourself in the intertwined web of life. Two hours appeared to have the most profound effects, while results were seen in even as little as 30 minutes. Since then, multiple studies have been conducted, replicating his results and confirming the positive benefits of mindful time spent in the forest.
I am not a doctor or a scientist, but my own experience shows that engaging in forest bathing is a rejuvenating experience that serves as an antidote to the insane speed and invasive technology of the modern world.
And so, after a stressful stretch at work, I woke up at dawn one morning, left a note for my wife, and headed out to the Adirondacks for some early morning forest bathing.
It was the dead of winter, with multiple feet of frozen snowpack on the trail. When I arrived at the Northville-Lake Placid Trailhead, it was clear that I was the first one who had been there in at least a few weeks—I would be breaking trail with my snowshoes.
Perfect, I thought, complete immersion with no distractions.
I hoisted my Contour 35 over my down jacket and began trudging upward, my snowshoes keeping me safely on top of the pack. The destination was the beautifully named Mud Lake about 3 miles down the trail. I had never seen it and hoped that it was as stunning as its name suggested.
But forest bathing is antithetical to goals. While I looked forward to plopping down by the shore and enjoying a cup of coffee, I knew that I had to appreciate the entire experience along the way. Otherwise, I would just be extending the stressed-out, goal oriented work mindset I was trying to avoid onto the trail.
The trail was steep for the first mile, and was made more challenging by the snow. Reminding myself to be with the moment, I focused on my breath. That labored breathing, the crunching of my snowshoes, the swishing sleeves of my jacket—those were the only sounds being made in the forest. There was no wind, few birds, and no signs of deer, moose, or a bear who woke up too early from its hibernation.
It was just me out here, surrounded by the trees.
On top of the ridge the trail began to wind in a confusing pattern—weaving from east to west, avoiding large drop-offs and fallen trees. For a second I thought I was lost — maybe I was too wrapped up in the moment — until I saw a clearing in the distance.
Mud Lake.
Hungry and cold, I began flying along the ridgeline, which gradually descended down to the lake. Using my snowshoes as skis, I was moving too fast to be forest bathing anymore. I had succumbed to the sense of hunger at the expense of the others.
A solitary pine tree stood at the edge of the lake, emblazoned with “No Camping” insignias that squashed the idea before it even came to my mind. The lake wasn’t large—it seemed to be mostly marshland to the sides—but just as I started to setup shop the clouds broke and sun glistened on the snow and ice around me.
My eyes closed as I filled my lungs. I smiled. The air was crisp and clean. The warmth of the sun melted my frozen nose hairs. A raven echoed in the distance, signaling that I was not alone here.
Once I took my snowshoes off my feet post-holed about a meter down to the ground level. I trudged forward to the tree, where the snow cover was minimal. Ready for my apple, nuts, and hot mushroom coffee, I swung my Contour 35 around and plopped it onto the ground. In that moment, I had a realization.
I had forgotten I was wearing it.
The pack was so light, and fit so well to my body, that I didn’t even realize it was on. In a world wear gear can be over complicated and full of unnecessary bells and whistles, oftentimes we’re focused more on what we’re using instead of what we’re exploring.
It’s hard to lose myself in forest bathing when I’m dealing with uncomfortable straps, hidden pockets, or a heavy load. Thankfully, today, my pack became part of me as I became part of the forest. Forgetting it was there allowed me to be immersed in the experience, instead of being ripped from it due to inconvenience and discomfort.
With the pack on the ground, I heated up my coffee and bit into my apple while I waited. The juice squirted out and ran down my chin. The coffee pot warmed my hands as the drink comforted my soul. Finally at my destination, I leaned my back into the tree, closed my eyes, and took in all the subtleties the environment had to offer.
This was forest bathing at its finest.
It must have been 15 minutes, perhaps 30, of being in that dream-like, meditative state before I was startled by a sound that brought me back to reality in an instant.
I had received a text. Apparently, on this tiny patch of land, a single bar was coming through.
He’s pretty fussy today. I think another tooth is coming in. Needs nap. ETA?
My wife was ready for reinforcements with our baby.
Accepting my fate, I stood up, packed my food and waste, and lifted the Contour back onto my shoulders. With one more breath of fresh air, I exhaled as a different man. One who was no longer stressed out by work, exhausted from raising an infant, or uncertain about what the future held.
I was present. Absorbed in the warm embrace that Earth always offers, but that I seldom accept. There, on that little patch of dirt next to a lake filled with mud, the forest had washed me clean.
I ran back to the car. All 3 miles. Slipping and sliding (and falling) on my snowshoes. Not because I was in a hurry, or because my wife was expecting me.
But because I was alive. Free. Full of lightness, once more.
Pete Gierlach is a writer from upstate New York. He has spent much of his life exploring the forests of the Northeast, where he loves to backpack, paddle, and wander around any path his feet can find. He also runs the "Slow and Strenuous Dispatch", which focuses on living well in our fast-paced world. You can read his work at petegierlach.substack.com.
