Brother-in-law Mike, when he farmed the Vetter Farm for almost three decades, used to walk wherever and whenever he could. He walked the fence lines. He walked the bean fields. He walked to move the cattle—even if it was over half a mile away. He left the tractor in the field and walked to the house for lunch. He walked to check irrigation. Maybe he could do it because his legs were longer than mine. He said you needed to walk the land to understand it better. He wanted to know the soil and get a feel for it through his feet.
Whenever I help on the farm, I like to ride. After David bought a Polaris 4-wheeler, it made farm chores much easier. I figure I can check the fences just fine from a seat.
But now that I look back on it, I think Mike was on to something. Not only did he get to know the farm better, but he was gentler on it. I have noticed that in the ten years since he retired, we have had more problems with ruts and mud holes in the places where we drive.
Walking is a way of living gentler in the world.
I now live next to Rocky Mountain National Park. Most of the people I know who moved here did so because we value a walk in the park. I am grateful for trails that are accessible to folks in wheelchairs and who use walkers. We think being in nature gives us perspective. We think it revives our souls. We see things we would miss if we weren’t walking—and stopping to catch our breath every so often. We experience weather by being out in it. We grow in grace.
Sometimes it is best to be in nature without human company and sometimes it is better to be with companions. Either way, we experience grace that this world so desperately needs.
Nurturing soil—nurturing community,
Jay