To wonder: to think or speculate curiously: to be filled with admiration, amazement, or awe; marvel
Before we set out on our hike across the Pyrénées, a lot of people asked us why we were going. 900km is a long way to walk, after all, and hiking through the wilderness for weeks on end is certainly not for everybody. The question always left me a little stumped: it was not very easy to put into words exactly why we decided to leave our lives behind and set out on what seemed like an impossible journey. We didn't actually have a particular objective for our hike, other than our vague plan to follow the GR10 (a trans-Pyreneen footpath, that starts at the Atlantic and finishes at the Mediterranean, traversing more than 850km of the Pyreneen mountains). It wasn't for charity, we certainly weren't the first people to ever do it and even in terms of our own sense of challenge, there was no race against time, or even any real obligation to actually make it all the way across – we had no idea before we started if we would actually make it that far. For me, the only answer I had to the question of why we were going wasn't really an answer at all, but a feeling. Having realised that the GR10 existed and that I could set off and spend a summer walking over those mountains, I couldn’t not go. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, this lack of definite purpose or objective meant that I wasn’t just setting off for a hike, I was going wandering.
This was the first time I had ever actively been without a definite purpose or objective. And it turned out to be exactly what I needed. Sometimes, your mind needs a break from the endless pursuit of goals and objectives. I know mine did. In 2013 I completed a PhD after three and half years of long hard work and although I wouldn’t admit it at the time, not even to myself, it had led to almost total mental burnout. It is not uncommon for this to happen, nor is it surprising: after all, writing a thesis is not just about writing 90,000 words, its an ongoing game of mental ping-pong that involves managing countless mini projects – there are relentless deadlines, an unending list of articles and books to read, a huge amount of pressure to publish, and the overwhelming paranoia that at any time, you will discover that somebody else has already published almost exactly the same idea as you have spent the last three years obsessing over. So when I woke up one day and realised that all this was, in fact, behind me, I felt totally lost. I had achieved all the objectives required of a doctorate and I had the certificate to prove it, but what lay in front of me now was a bewildering series of choices, each one leading to new sets of goals and objectives. Pick a purpose, any purpose, pick a purpose now, my brain kept telling me. But I couldn’t. I felt stuck. The only thing that made sense to me was the feeling I had about the mountains – that I couldn’t not go. And so, off I went into the mountains, not really knowing why I was going or what was in store for me.
What I discovered as I roamed is that wandering is not just a state without definite purpose: it is a mode of being that is slow and contemplative. When you wander, there is time and space to really think. Or to not think: to let you thoughts fall by the wayside as your mind relaxes into the rhythm that your body drums out. And this is when we get to the wondering aspect of our hike. The truly remarkable thing about crossing a mountain range on foot is that you are constantly in a state of wonder. Every single thing you see inspires curiosity: it is impossible not to be filled with admiration, amazement, and awe at all that befalls you. Wild animals appear at the edge of your vision, rare and shy, yet curious. The sky turns colours that you’ve only seen in paintings or photographs and the light shines through clouds or treetops in such a way that the scene in front of you looks entirely unreal. There is an abundance of flowers in every colour, shape and fragrance, impossibly old fossils littering the path, views of craggy rocky mountains whose very presence seem to defy gravity and a whole other array of natural phenomena that cause you to stop and marvel every hundred metres or so. And that is just the world outside your head.
Wandering also begets the other kind of wondering, which is focused inwards on the self. I am certain that there really is no better way to achieve a meditative state than to climb a very steep mountain. Not because the breathtaking views will transform your thoughts into new age mantras and fill you with awe (although, as noted above, this may well be a nice side effect), but because the point of mediation – at least, as I understand it – is to clear your mind of all extraneous thoughts and to focus entirely on the present moment. Nothing will force you to do this more efficiently than climbing a rocky, steep, sweat-inducing path. Your attention to the present moment must be absolute: every deep breath you take to refill your lungs is purposeful, every footstep has to be carefully considered so as to minimise your chances of slipping or falling or twisting your ankle, whilst all the while maximising your efficiency as you push yourself onwards and upwards. You may well find yourself in a state of acute physical discomfort: your muscles and joints may ache, your lungs will burn, and sweat will form a steady stream down your face. The physical effort involved will ensure that all worries, cares and thoughts that are not directly related to the mountainside in front of you are utterly irrelevant and you will achieve a state of now-ness in which fears and worries melt away like the beads of sweat on your forehead. It might not feel like nirvana and it may not bring immediate enlightenment, but you cannot fail to notice that you are a living, breathing being when you climb a mountain. And when you have the time to really pay attention to that living, breathing being, you might be amazed at what you discover.
A funny thing happened to my thoughts as we wandered and wondered along. As the hours turned to days and the days turned to weeks, my lack of purpose was no longer a problem that needed to be resolved, but rather a liberating state of potential. The screaming voices in my head telling me that I had to decide what I was going to do with the rest of my life right now or else face certain doom began to quiet themselves as we went about the daily business of rambling along. I found a new perspective in my head that looked around, and looked at myself and was full of wonder. Uncertainty stopped being terrifying and instead became really rather marvellous. We usually didn’t know exactly where we would be sleeping that night, but that was okay: we were prepared for different eventualities, had studied the map and would find somewhere suitable to pitch the tent in due course. Every day unfurled differently, but the not-knowing what would happen meant that every moment contained the possibility of a wonderful surprise if only we were open to it. The very idea of progress was entirely unimportant – it was not about how many kilometres we had walked but the moments we had spent along the way; the deserted valleys that we had all to ourselves all as the sun sank in the sky, the kindness of strangers we had encountered and the wisdom they had shared with us. There was more meaning to be found in those mountains as we wandered, aimless and free, than in any other arbitrary goal I’ve ever achieved. I’ve never felt a stronger sense of being in the right place at the right time. And I began to trust in the process and to see the greater lesson that was being revealed to me. Wandering and wondering across the Pyrénées taught me, in a very real way, that it was okay to be without a definite objective and that a curious, open outlook is worth much much more than steadfast certainty.
Of course that is all very well when you’re off having adventures. The hardest part comes at the end – the questions begin again and its suddenly a lot harder to trust in the limitless potential of uncertainty. Honestly, I still have no definite answers or set objectives but I’m trying to remember that that is okay for now. All I can do is take little steps to wherever it is that I am going, try my hardest and enjoy the little moments of wonder along the way.
I'll finish with a quote by the great John Muir, a man who not only understood the value of wandering and wondering in his own life, but wrote passionately about it in the hopes of encouraging others to set aside time in their busy lives for aimlessness and speculation. He sums it up much more succinctly than I can. I urge you too to follow his advice; to follow your feet and see where they will take you. It might be the most important thing you ever do.
"Wander […] a whole summer, if you can. Thousands of […] wild blessings will search you and soak you as if you were a sponge, and the big days will go by uncounted. If you are business-tangled, and so burdened by duty that only weeks can be got out of the heavy-laden year ... give a month at least to this precious reserve. The time will not be taken from the sum of your life. Instead of shortening, it will indefinitely lengthen it and make you truly immortal."
John Muir - Our National Parks (1901), Chapter 1
