I wake up, pick up my phone, and immediately start doom-scrolling, lying to rot in bed. My room is dark, except for the fluorescent blue glow from my phone, numbing my senses. I let myself sink into a sadness that I know will trail me through the rest of the day.
The acrimonious political climate intermixed with the constant exposure to violent news stirs deep fear about the future of my generation. My phone holds my attention in a chokehold, notifications of “breaking news” coming in every 10 minutes. How much breaking news can a person handle?
I take my dog, Mac, on a walk, but I am distracted. I start mistaking phantom buzzes for real ones, and it’s unsettling how my skin can mistake the feeling of no sensation with a vibration. An urge to check my phone runs down my spine and my hand instinctively grabs at my pocket before my mind can resist.
When I look at my phone, my empty lock screen stares back. Here I am, in the middle of a lush, mossy green forest, too afraid of missing the next piece of “breaking news” that I have become enveloped in a hazy detached state, allowing my phone to pull my thoughts away from the world around me.
It frustrates me when people choose to completely disconnect from what’s happening in the world because it’s a privilege not everyone has. Many people can’t just detach — they’re directly impacted by the political shifts, changing climate, violence and hate in their daily lives.
I think about my friend, Iñupiaq Elder Robert Thompson. I visited Robert this summer at his home in Kaktovik, Alaska, on the North Slope of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (Arctic Refuge).
In the last two decades, Robert has dedicated his life to protecting the Arctic Refuge, as his way of life — and our collective future — depends on it. The Trump administration is eager to get another shot at developing this vast piece of biodiverse land. Even with this pressure on Robert, he inspires me to stay positive.
“We go through life and have all these bad things that weigh us down. Really bad things,” Robert told me over a cup of coffee on a chilly Arctic afternoon. “You’ve got to pace yourself [on this work] and consciously make the effort to enjoy life.”
I decide to turn my notifications off, detaching from the constant connection. Mac and I head into the mountains to try to reattach to the tangible world around us.
The wind rips across the ridges and the rain stings my cheeks as Mac and I start running on the rooted trail. My breathing is labored, my legs feel tight and my mind wanders. I focus on Mac as his nose investigates every smell and excitement radiates off him.
We run past waterfalls chiseled into late fall’s rusty orange mountainsides. We follow a river up the valley, chasing its headwaters, watching the snow line fall lower and lower.
I laugh as Mac is spooked by the cry of a marmot, and I just barely grab his collar in time before he lunges at a porcupine. We watch two eagles soar above us and suddenly entangle their talons and free fall, spiraling through the air together in a beautiful act of love.
We reach the end of the trail, four miles deep. It is quiet. No phantom buzzes haunt my pockets. We sit at the base of a waterfall, as the rain continues to pour around us.
“It feels good out here,” I tell Mac.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” his eyes tell me.
I decide I need to set boundaries for myself. Create intentional time to clock into the news cycle and the greater world, but by the same token, I need to set intentional time to reconnect with the beauty in the world right in front of me. Because I do love it here.
As I chase Mac back down the trail, I feel refreshed and filled with gratitude. I grab a piece of trash left behind on the trail: a reminder that I am in control of small-scale actions that make a difference.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond. Reach her at heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
