I Will Never Leave North America

And I’m OK with this. (Cheakamus Lake. Wikipedia.)

My husband and I recently came to the slow, quiet realization that we will never travel outside of North America. He did, once, over 20 years ago now – the furthest I ever got was Hawaii.

Closing the door on overseas travel is a strange thing when you’re raised in a middle class family, and surrounded by middle class people. You tell them that you’ll never make it to Europe or Asia or South America, and they suddenly start looking at you like you’ve told them the prognosis of your terminal illness.

It’s a death knell for your obligatory personal acculturation, the common wisdom goes. Being entertained and enraptured by exotic peoples has been a longtime hobby of the privileged westerner, and it’s supposedly part and parcel of what makes someone a well-rounded member of society. What are some words we associate with the non-traveler? Sheltered; close-minded; boring; pitiable, maybe? I know there are worse.

It was a harsh conclusion for us to come to, that’s for sure. I had hopes of visiting Japanese Shinto shrines or 300-year old Irish pubs; he had similar. But they’re just not meant to be, and we’ve come to terms with that.

An interesting thing happens when you suddenly find yourself limited to seeing and knowing the things in your “backyard” – you wind up with a desire to know it all more intimately, in greater detail. We want to get to know British Columbia as much as humanly possible, as it turns out. From its unnamed bays to its most remote mountain wildernesses, we know that this single province will provide us with lifetimes of sightseeing, adventure, and inspiration. And if we somehow get tired of these breath-taking vistas, there’s always the Yukon, or the states further south.

The fact of the matter is that there’s other places we’d prefer to dump our money. Investments are the name of the game, now: land, a house, durable equipment to make self-sufficiency just that much more of a reality. These are material gifts that keep on materially giving. Travel? Not so much.

Air travel, too, has become rather indefensible. The airline industry spews obscene amounts of CO2 into the atmosphere, and in recent years its become the accepted battlefield where nation-states are permitted to wage wars against their own law abiding citizens, to speak nothing of foreign visitors.

While my husband is not quite done requiring the use of airlines, I believe I’ve already boarded my last plane. It feels strange to say that I’m done with flying, but really, I’m looking forward to what slower, easier, and cheaper modes of transport can do for me. It doesn’t close off opportunities from my perspective. In fact, it opens the way for so many more; smaller and closer as the case may be.

This is actually a well-worn path. Many naturalists and nature writers over the centuries have wondered aloud about that peculiar desire for foreign travel. (Such sentiment is different from ‘wanderlust’, which is no more than the impulse to explore a place – how far afield that is from one’s home is not implicated by the definition of the word.) In the book I’m reading now, Robert MacFarlane’s The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot, he, too, wonders aloud about this in the tradition of his predecessors:

We lack – we need – a term for those places where one experiences a ‘transition’ from a known landscape onto [John Boroughs’] ‘far side of the moon’, into [W. H. Hudson’s] ‘new country’, into [Wendell Berry’s] ‘another world’; somewhere we feel and think significantly differently. I have for some time been imagining such transitions as ‘border crossings’. These borders do not correspond to national boundaries, and papers and documents are unrequired at them. Their traverse is generally unbiddable, and no reliable map exists of their routes and outlines. They exist even in familiar landscapes: there when you cross a certain watershed, treeline or snowline, or enter rain, storm, or mist, or pass from boulder clay onto sand, or chalk onto greenstone. Such moments are rites of passage that reconfigure local geographies, leaving known places outlandish or quickened, revealing continents within counties.

What might we call such incidents and instances – or, rather, how to describe the lands that are found beyond these frontiers? ‘Xenotopias’, perhaps, meaning ‘foreign places’ or ‘out-of-place places’, a term to compliment our ‘utopias’ and out ‘dystopias’. Martin Martin, the traveller and writer who in the 1690’s set sail to explore the Scottish coastline, knew that one does not need to displace oneself vastly in space in order to find difference. ‘It is a piece of weakness and folly merely to value things because of their distance from the place where we are born,’ he wrote in 1697, ‘this men have travelled far enough in the search of foreign plants and animals, and yet continue strangers to those produced in their own natural climate’. So did Roger Deakin: ‘Why would anyone want to go live abroad when they can live in several countries at once just by being in England?’ he wondered in his journal. Likewise, Henry David Thoreau: ‘An aboslutely new prospect is a great happiness, and I can still get this any afternoon. Two or three hours’ walking will carry me to as strange a country as I expect to ever see. A single farmhouse which I had not seen before is sometimes as good as the dominions of the King of Dahomey.’

And so my husband and I have begun to view our much smaller world.

Sgair Gaoith. Wikipedia.

It’s said that familiarity breeds contempt, but I don’t believe someone with truly open ears and a healthy capacity for wonder experiences this phenomenon to any great extent. In The Living Mountain (which I have not yet read), Nan Shepherd talks about her lifelong, almost ritualistic explorations of the Cairngorm mountains in her native Scotland, and how, after decades of repeated travels through the mountains on foot, their mystery and beauty only looms larger, and her own human understanding looms much, much less.

Once we leave the loud, hurried, money-sucking tumult of the city, we will be in a place where we can walk and breathe and experience land that has not been beaten down by the harsh logic of human extraction. We’ll get to know the trees and the rocks and the movements of animals on their terms.

I had a heated discussion about this with some friends of mine a month or so ago, while we were visiting Joshua Tree for the weekend. My friend, having spent time in India as part of his undergraduate program, had no philosophical ontology with which to begin appreciating my lack of desire to visit exotic places. He was incredulous – as he often is when confronted with my politically-motivated personal decisions and the expectations I hold based on my knowledge of environmental issues and of the associated history, politics, and technological developments – even as I explained the depth with which one can come to know and love a very small geographical area.

“See that tree there?” I said, pointing to a particularly old and stunningly sculptural specimen of Yucca brevifolia, “If this were my house, then I would love nothing more than to spend time with that tree every day for the rest of my life, to get to know every inch of that tree, every creature that visits it.”

We were still at odds, but his wife, my best friend of 16 years, understood me: I don’t want to experience someone or something for just one hour, one day; I want to build a relationship with the things in my life. I want to bear witness to their existence, and hold them in my memory.

MacFarlane talks about finding ‘continents within counties’, and this is an important image to have to understand the mind of the non-traveler. You put anything under a microscope and it suddenly becomes an entire universe unto itself; this is the lens through which we experience our environment. Or perhaps more smugly, what sets us apart is that we understand that we have an environment, and that we are fully present and participatory in it.

The pursuit of the novel and exotic is really a colonial notion, too. Unfamiliarity becomes a resource to extract from other people and places; a resource that can be depleted: boredom. If this is the relationship we have with otherness, then it’s no wonder that contempt spreads when the well of excitement runs dry.

Maintaining. Settling. These are very uninspiring words according to the popular lexicon of consumption and affluence. There’s a much bigger, much subtler beauty behind such notions as “make do and mend”, and unlearning that want for newness, whether in socks or spouses or countries is part of the picture.



9 thoughts on “I Will Never Leave North America

  1. I am torn on this topic, personally. On the one hand, I really love the idea of getting to know one area intimately, and I do believe it is possible to be thoroughly enchanted with a single place and spend one’s whole life there. It’s certainly how most humans have lived throughout history. I think it would also be a powerful animistic practice to do so deliberately when we have other options now fairly readily available.

    On the other hand, part of me longs deeply for certain foreign lands – not to ogle the people or cultures, but because they are the lands of some of my gods. It has been amazing to walk on the earth in Greece and Iceland and England, and there are still a few other faraway places I’d really like to experience for the same reasons. But – I similarly question the expenditure (if I were ever to even have such money again), and I agree with the environmental argument against air travel. And, there is something appealing about the idea of just committing to the region I live in, and exploring it thoroughly – I mean, Oregon is full of natural wonders, and I’ve seen a small percentage even after over a decade. It’s something I go back and forth on a lot.

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    • It’s an aspirational goal of mine; born from lacking in both time and money to travel, as well as having a strong personal desire to settle in one place and stay there long enough to be as much part of the landscape as the landscape is part of me. I’m finding that I do this with the material objects I possess more and more – “buy it for life” has taken on a very animist implication for me. I see it as surrounding myself with lifelong friends.

      But you’re right, the pilgrimage is also an ancient and powerful act, one that would benefit many people I think. But that sort of undertaking, I feel, is very different than travel for travel’s sake. I would love to go walk the steps of the pyramids at Teotihuacan, or throw a votive offering into the sacred well at Chichen Itza. But it’s just not going to happen. My gods have been patient and understanding, thankfully!

      It’s funny, I bought your book a few days ago, as you posted about it going up for sale after I’d started The Old Ways. That is definitely the most powerful book I’ve read all year so far, and I’m beginning to consider it as a quasi-religious text for me personally. But the timing is interesting, and I can’t wait to dive into your walking book as soon as I’m done!

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      • Yes, pilgrimage, that’s the difference. Actually, I don’t think I ever really travel for travel’s sake – other than visiting family, I only travel for spiritual reasons, even within my region. Then again, at this point I don’t do many things for non-spiritual reasons!

        You’ll note that I actually put The Old Ways in the suggested reading list at the end of my walking book! I love Robert Macfarlane.

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        • No you don’t! And what a flat, lifeless world we’d live in without the few folk like you who do that work with as much single-minded passion as anyone else does anything that they cannot bear to deny.

          And oh, very cool – I REALLY can’t wait for it to get here, then. In fact, I’m going to take a break from MacFarlane for it.

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  2. OMG I know the feeling you get when I tell people the only other countries I’ve been to is Canada and Mexico. When you live in Southern California, every one used to go to Mexico. I have been to all 50 states. We have so many interesting things to see and do here!

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    • I haven’t even traveled that much! I’ve only ever properly visited, let’s see… 11 states, ventured down into Baja a few times growing up, and thoroughly explored the Metro Vancouver area of BC. (Including a few weekend jaunts to Whistler and Victoria.) Basically, if it involves getting on a plane, it ain’t happening anymore.

      I have gotten to know my native Los Angeles quite intimately, though. I’ve been to every beach in the county, I’ve tramped through the San Gabriels and done a lot of bushwhacking in remote or forgotten canyons, done some off-roading (and am jonesing for more!), swam through kelp forests while skin diving, and been on more camping trips than I can remember. That’s the kind of exploration I’m interested in these days. And if you pay attention enough, you’ll find entire cultures right out your back door. I mean, c’mon – you can’t possibly tell me that the beach bums along Venice are the same people who hike the PCT or the same people who fix up craftsman bungalows in Pasadena. It’s not just continents within counties – it’s countries too.

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  3. Wow, I have so much appreciation for your perspective. Despite being in a contrary position and travel being my current life status, I couldn’t agree more about getting to know where you come from and appreciating it for all of its worth, instead of the superficial way in which most people travel nowadays.

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  4. I love this so much! I feel like I am judged by people for not being well-traveled but there is so much to do and see in my own part of the world that doesn’t generate excessive pollution. Our value as individuals is not measured by the number of stamps in a passport.

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  5. This is such a great way to view what you have around you! Travel exists in so many different forms and people seem to forget that exploring their own backyards can be just as valuable.

    Thank you for writing this. It is so refreshing to see adventure and staying close to home intertwine.

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