Forget the Yacht. The Best Travel Is on Foot, Through Wilderness.

Nicholas Kristof

Some folks think the best way to travel is by private jet. Or yacht. My choice: by foot.

Some think that the best thing about America is its wealth, technology and modernity. Others point to its Democratic institutions. But I’m with writer Wallace Stegner that America’s “best idea” is our spectacular inheritance of public lands — purple mountain majesties — amounting to about 40% of our nation. As Stegner said of our national parks: “Absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best.”

Some people worship in a church, others in a temple or mosque. I attend the cathedral of the wilderness, for among wildflowers in an alpine meadow we can all connect to something grander than ourselves.

I don’t want to overromanticize the wild; my cathedral has no thermostat, so it’s always too cold or too hot, and it can be filled with mosquitoes. But wilderness still fills me with semireligious awe.

The 17th-century philosopher Baruch Spinoza argued that God and nature were the same, and perhaps in an age of declining religious practice some can find in nature another kind of higher power to be inspired by. Like religion, wild spaces teach us humility and patience (certainly mosquitoes do). Wilderness puts us in our place, calms us, soothes our souls. Like prayer or meditation, walking through the wild gives us an opportunity to detach, to reflect, to self-correct.

So here I am in my alpine cathedral on the slopes of Mount Hood in Oregon, marking the end of summer with my wife, Sheryl WuDunn, as we backpack on the Timberline Trail. My family hikes this loop around the mountain almost every year.

We cowboy camp, without a tent — if rain seems likely we set up a small tarp — and fall asleep watching shooting stars. Then we rise with the first orange rays of the sun: A sunrise serves as caffeine. We stow our sleeping bags and hike, with no schedule or plan. When we’re tired, we rest and eat. When we’re thirsty, we stop at a rushing creek and fill a water bottle with snowmelt. When dusk approaches, we find a flat patch of ground and lay out our sleeping bags.

As we walk, we ponder. What I’m pondering is how lucky we are that our forebears more than a century ago — prophetic leaders like Theodore Roosevelt and Gifford Pinchot — fought industrial interests and succeeded in preserving wild spaces for our public use in 2024, and our great-great-grandchildren’s use in 2124.

The original model for America was to privatize nearly all land, so by one analysis only about 15% of New York state is now publicly owned. But over time in newer states, with champions like Roosevelt, national parks and forests were created and more state and city lands set aside as well.

Today a majority of the land in states like Oregon, California, Idaho and Nevada is held by the public. Alaska is an extreme example: About 85% of Alaska is set aside for the common good.

I can’t help thinking that if we were to allocate land in today’s more calculating age, America might make a different choice and sell pristine spaces to the highest bidder, perhaps with naming rights to mountains and rivers. This might be Mount Musk, and we’d be outside the fence wistfully exchanging stories of the glaciers on a billionaire’s playground.

Perhaps that would be more efficient. Private landowners might do a better job controlling forest fires than the government. But what a loss for the nation.

On our first night out on this trip, Sheryl and I found a spot under soaring fir trees beside a babbling brook, as the mountain and its glaciers loomed over us. During the night, some large animal, perhaps Bigfoot, woke us by crashing through the brush, adding priceless atmospherics.

This was a spot that no billionaire could buy. It was ours that night, perhaps some other hiker’s the next night, and maybe on the third night Bigfoot had it all to himself. In our shared wilderness, there are no tiers of pricing as at Disneyland; we are all equal before the majesty of nature.

In some parts of America, private beaches are the playgrounds of the affluent. But Oregon beaches are all public, so earlier in the summer my family backpacked on the Oregon Coast Trail, which meanders from Washington to California along deserted beaches (and forced us once, when we miscalculated the tides, to make a run for it around a small cape to avoid the waves). Those glorious beaches are mine, are yours, are ours.

In many ways, America is a class society. Rich and poor live in different neighborhoods, shop at different stores, send kids to different schools and inhabit different worlds. But one place of true democracy is on our public lands.

My daughter and I hiked the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada over six years (best parenting I ever did), and the trail was the most egalitarian space I’ve seen. We met CEOs, nurses, construction laborers and students, with none of the usual cues to judge status. We all stank.

In the course of writing a recent memoir, I came to realize that I probably had suffered a mild case of PTSD from covering too many wars and massacres. It was in this same period that I developed a passion for backpacking, and I suspect that I unconsciously prescribed myself wilderness therapy to heal.

It works. I see wild spaces as a place to think, to escape cellphones and editors (sorry, boss!), to connect with loved ones, to be dazzled and humbled by the vastness of space and the slowness of geologic time, to escape class divides, to purge ourselves of frustrations and political toxicity, to bare our souls, to be recharged. Thank God for America’s best idea.