Curiosity, Freedom, and Hiking the Trail Less Traveled

“We keep moving forward, opening new doors,

and doing new things, because we're curious

and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.”

— Walt Disney, The Original "Imagineer"

---

CURIOSITY VERSUS COMFORT

In my early twenties, amidst the hectic life of a graduate student, I came across M. Scott Peck's The Road Less Traveled. The title captivated me. Ultimately, my curiosity about “traveling” to a place few might experience pulled me into the book.

That's what curiosity can do. It can lead to an unexpected destination, then another, and another. Each landing point can produce unanticipated insights into ourselves while enriching our view of others.

Still, one needs the freedom—or at least a sense of choice—to pursue curiosity. Albert Einstein wrote, “Curiosity is a delicate little plant that aside from stimulation stands mainly in need of freedom.”

Peck's book explores the difficult choices involved in pursuing personal growth. He suggests that many of us become bound by biases, rules, and fears inherited from parents and cultural influences. These can limit our freedom to choose experiences that might enrich our lives. Overcoming them requires discipline and the willingness to tolerate discomfort.

Fear, in particular, can keep us safely confined to what we already know. The familiar may not be satisfying, but at least we know what to expect.

Perhaps that's why I have often thought about these ideas while hiking.

THE TRAIL LESS TRAVELED

I am not advocating veering off established trails. Occasionally, however, having the freedom to step aside and observe something that catches your attention can lead to an interesting encounter.

John Muir famously wrote, “The world is big and I want to have a good look at it before it gets dark.” That curiosity to “have a good look” is one reason I continue to hike.

For example, while backpacking in the Glen Aulin area of Yosemite, I trekked westward along the Tuolumne River from Glen Aulin High Sierra Camp toward Waterwheel Fall. I didn't expect to make it all the way to Waterwheel Fall. I wanted to remain flexible enough to take advantage of whatever unplanned excursions or experiences might find me.

After hiking about two miles along the main trail toward the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne, I stopped at the base of California Fall to take some photographs.

From there, the main trail began to veer away from the river as it descended around large granite benches. In the distance, opposite the trail, I noticed a lone backpacker's tent perched on a granite slab overlooking the Tuolumne.

Few hikers would probably have given it a second thought. I did.

The tent seemed worthy of at least a quick “drive-by.”

Lone tent below California Fall in the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne River

I veered onto the granite expanse and made my way toward it. The broad slab made it easy enough to retrace my steps if I wandered too far from the main trail. After passing the unattended tent, however, I decided not to return immediately. Instead, I continued westward toward a clump of trees where I presumed the main trail had bent around the granite.

Sure enough, I found a trail—or so I thought.

My confidence that I was approaching Le Conte Fall, the next waterfall before Waterwheel, soon began to fade. The farther I walked, the narrower and less used the trail became. Accumulated forest debris provided additional evidence that this was not the well-traveled route I had left behind.

Then, to my right, I noticed a community of colorful tents of various shapes and sizes scattered among the trees.

The arrangement was curious. A few tents were close together; another took advantage of the shade; another seemed to be seeking the sun. There was no obvious order to their placement, yet it somehow looked intentional.

A few more steps brought me to an unexpected habitation seemingly devoid of life. Canisters, buckets, boxes, chairs, and other objects were scattered around the foot of a large granite dome.

Then a thirty-foot-high yellow tent caught my attention. It sheltered tables, bear boxes, and other supplies necessary for human habitation.

I quickly concluded that my trail less traveled had led me to some sort of private camp, accessible only to those “in the know.” It seemed like an ideal place for peace and solitude, with several waterfalls nearby along the Tuolumne.

Then I noticed him.

A REED OF FREEDOM

A man in his twenties sat quietly on a camping chair a short distance away. He seemed unfazed by my presence, and his calm demeanor completed the still-life quality of the scene. He held a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other, deeply engrossed in his reading.

When we made eye contact, I introduced myself, partly to assure him that I appreciated the prevailing peace and was no threat to it.

He greeted me softly.

I asked whether the camp was a private retreat for people with special access. He casually explained that it was a spike camp—a home base for a National Park trail crew working on trails in this part of the wilderness.

I apologized for intruding and explained that I was on my way to Le Conte Fall and had obviously taken a wrong turn. I mentioned that he seemed to have been left behind by the other trail workers.

He volunteered that he was the “cook” of the crew.

Not wanting to interfere with his quiet time, I asked his name.

“Reed,” he replied, “as in read, but spelled with two E's.”

I thanked him for his time, but my curiosity prompted one more question.

“Must be a good book you're reading, Reed. What's it called?”

He said, “Foucault's book on Discipline and Punish.”

Hmm.

I had never heard of it, yet he mentioned the title in passing, as though it were a classic alongside Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams.

I asked Reed how to return to the main trail, thanked him again, and headed back the way I had come.

Looking back, I wish I had lingered a little longer. I would have liked to ask what prompted a young trail-crew cook to spend his quiet afternoon reading Foucault's Discipline and Punish in the middle of the Yosemite wilderness.

But I suspect that one question would have led to another, and then another.

Reed never seemed hurried. The wilderness has a way of slowing conversations, and perhaps I was too concerned about imposing on his solitude to recognize that I had been given permission to linger.

Five more minutes might have answered questions I still carry today.

Or perhaps they would simply have replaced one mystery with another.

Reed and the National Park Service Spike Camp for the Trail Crew

HIKING FORWARD FREELY

I still think about that brief encounter with Reed.

The camp represented a kind of freedom to me: freedom to choose where to pitch a tent, freedom to choose what to read, freedom to settle into peace and solitude, freedom to leave many of the ordinary comforts of life behind—and freedom to choose a trail less traveled.

Some people don't understand why I hike. They believe I subject myself to unnecessary punishment.

Admittedly, hiking can provide a fair amount of it: heat, cold, rocky trails, dusty trails, steep switchbacks, and muscles that remind you the next morning that they were involved.

But the punishment is not the point.

The reward is what happens along the way.

Hiking requires discipline. You have to keep moving when the trail becomes difficult. You have to pay attention to where you are going. You have to make choices. And sometimes, if you are fortunate, you have to recognize when curiosity is offering you something worth investigating.

That day, curiosity led me away from the trail I was following and toward a lone tent I could easily have ignored.

The tent led me to a trail I didn't recognize.

The trail led me to a camp I didn't know existed.

And the camp led me to Reed.

I went looking for Le Conte Fall. Instead, I found a young man sitting quietly in the wilderness, reading a book about discipline and punishment, while living a life that seemed to embody something quite different: freedom.

Perhaps that's why I remember him.

Hiking has taught me that the destination isn't always the most important thing. Sometimes the real reward is the unexpected person, place, or idea encountered along the way.

Curiosity gets me moving.

Freedom allows me to choose the direction.

And the trail—whether well-traveled or not—offers the opportunity to discover what lies beyond the next bend.

Sometimes, it even introduces you to a Reed.