Forest Bathing at Old Mission State Park

Editor’s Note: Harry Vann Phillips writes about “forest bathing,” and reminds me that I have NOT spent enough time in the forest this year. Thank you, Harry. I have to get myself back in the forest — for my physical, spiritual and emotional health. And Old Mission State Park is my favorite place to hike. -jb

Forest bathing has intrigued me for quite some time. At first the term might conjure a deep pool of clear water or a mossy bank along a slow-moving stream. It’s something quite different and practiced as a form of mindfulness to cleanse oneself of the stresses of everyday life. Everyday life? Hmm, what does that entail? In this age of near real time communication on a global scale, it can mean almost anything.

For those of us who live on Northwest Michigan’s Old Mission Peninsula, everyday life is usually serene. Even so, the claptrap of the modern world slips into the bucolic setting of one of Michigan’s most idyllic places. This beautiful spit of land of orchards and vineyards, forests and fields, and the grandeur of the surrounding Grand Traverse Bay is at times tantamount to Eden, despite the never-ending onslaught of development.

The people here are industrious and hardworking. The farmers are the lifeblood of the Peninsula. They and their families have been here for decades or more, working the land, harvesting their crops, and putting their stamp of familial community onto this small, intricately complex, yet simple place.

Our gatherings are communal, whether it’s the workers in the vineyards and orchards or members of our various organizations which add the cultural social spark so many of us enjoy. Our award-winning vineyards provide fine wines with a splash of solace among the vines. And the many farm stands along Center Road provide so many options for fresh fruits and vegetables from the Peninsula’s orchards and farms.

Despite the calm beauty of the Peninsula and the peacefully agrarian nature of our home, there are also the stresses of the modern world which darken our outlook or choke the breath out of us with so many of the modern world’s maladies. We’ve recently made it into the Wall Street Journal about business decisions which have turned legal, pursuing what many consider ill-gotten gains should the litigation favor payment of an absurd amount of money by our local officials, which will surely be passed along to the rest of us who live here. And because of who we are, we hope cooler heads will ultimately prevail.

The point here is that despite the incredible beauty, the majesty that is Old Mission Peninsula, the modern world often imposes itself on us despite our desire to be free of such concerns. It’s not a naïve desire, but rather a long sought out longing for calm in the wake of a lifetime of living with the raging turbulence of the modern world.

From politics and the economy, to changing weather patterns impacting crop harvests, the outside world is not that far from us and tends to leave its mark. There are many tumultuous things many of us have tried to leave behind with our lives here on the Peninsula. And still they find us, despite our best efforts to keep them at bay.

At the northernmost point of Old Mission Peninsula stands a lighthouse, a relic from times past when sailing ships and steamers relied on the light to avoid disaster among rocks and shoals. Today it is representative of what once was. It is a reminder that not everything remains the same, and that change in this fast-paced world of ours is inevitable.

The lighthouse reminds us that not that long ago the technologies which engulf us today were the imaginings of science fiction or the postulations of the most forward looking scientific research. There was a time when life was much simpler, slower paced, and not impacted by a twenty-four by seven news cycle bombarding us with images of a world seemingly ready to implode. By weight of sheer volume, our ability to integrate, assess, understand and properly address what is happening in near real time can become overwhelmed.

It is with this in mind that I come back to the lighthouse standing as a silent sentinel to all that was and all who were a part of making Old Mission Peninsula what it is today. A home for many, a peaceful respite for those such as myself, and a vibrantly diverse community where neighbors and friends enjoy each other’s company while enjoying expansive views of water, vines and fruit trees.

In addition to all these wonderful attributes are our forests. Some are rather swampy as they grow in what were once parts of Lake Michigan eons ago, now filled in with silt and mud and cut off from the windswept waves of our Great Lake.

And others, like the forested land of Old Mission State Park immediately south of the lighthouse, provide miles of trails for all to enjoy. While some trails are along short, ruggedly steep slopes, others are easily walkable.

The forests of Old Mission State Park are truly remarkable. Firstly, they are surrounded on three sides by water that constantly change their edge, their shoreline, by the unrelenting force of nature. A fringe of sandy beach runs from the water’s edge to the beckoning forest’s treeline. The forest canopy covers the very northern tip of the Peninsula and shades a variety of ecosystems for the local fauna.

Hiking trails within the park are meticulously maintained and often seem to be traversing some sort of outdoor cathedral. Despite the lack of steeples, apses and vaulted ceilings, there is a divine element one feels while exploring the paths this forest holds.

There is also a singularly refreshing feeling visitors experience as they traverse this place where so many creatures make their home. When exploring its trails and paths, it’s as though an awakening occurs of one’s inner spirit as the forest calls echo its care for all.

Experiencing the seasonal moods of the forest is particularly inviting. In the fall, the rustle of leaves and blasts of brown, orange and yellow paint a silhouette of quiet solitude away from the hustle and bustle of Traverse City a short distance away. Winter snowshoe adventures offer the effervescent quiet of the forest blanketed with deep snow and the glistening of sunlight streaming through snow frocked evergreen hemlock bows or the bare branches of oaks and maples.

When buds first appear and the trails are slick with brown-gray dirt and patches of dark mud, the signs of spring present themselves as hints of green from the ground to the treetops. Summertime hues of dark green upon darker green accentuated by shadows cast from dusk to dawn remind us of how sacred the land is as the shadows often resemble fleeting spirits.

The forest offers a somber solitude which elicits an awareness of its many gifts as well as the gifts we have within ourselves. No matter the season, the forest offers its gifts if only we would venture in to explore them.

The Japanese phrase “shinrin-yoku” means to experience the forest environment by soaking in its atmosphere, and is otherwise known as forest bathing. Forest bathing is the practice of immersing oneself in the forest ecosystem using all five senses. As a practice, forest bathing is first and foremost intended to be a soothing experience which embraces all the many textures, colors, sights and sounds the forest offers.

There are so many things to see amongst the shadows. Jutting roots can trip you up along your hike if you are not observant. Similarly, acorns can bop you on the head as randomly as a snowflake alights on your nose. The rustling of squirrels or chipmunks foraging amongst the leaves or the grunt of a doe telling her fawn to be wary are sounds you may come across before you see the many facets and characteristics of their forest home.

The quantity and variety of things which one can see while forest bathing can quickly fill your mindfulness portfolio leading to more awareness of everything around and within you. And if you are lucky, a powerful raptor may land on a tree limb a few yards away as you watch it quietly sit in its perch until it sees you and flies off in search of its next meal.

The forest of Old Mission State Park is tranquil, but it is not silent. When I am there hiking alone or with my wife, I listen for the slightest sounds which might offer me a new understanding not just of the forest, but myself. As you can imagine, the first sounds of the forest are often the trees rubbing their branches and leaves in a soft breeze. The calls of songbirds then echo across the green shrouded garden of natural delights, letting us know this place is first and foremost their home.

Along the eastern edge of the park, waves lapping on the sandy beach can draw you down a narrow path onto a sand, stone and shell covered landscape punctuated by pieces of driftwood whose intricate curves and bends originated from who knows where. Whatever the sound, letting it bathe your mind to reduce the cacophony of manmade noise we hear each day helps to put ourselves at peace, not just with the world at large, but ourselves.

Our sense of touch can be heightened as we make our way deep into the forest. This is especially true if one fails to duck a low hanging limb or gets stung by a supple sapling which springs back after your spouse walking in front of you pushes it out of their way.

There is also the feel of the ground beneath our feet. Our modern footwear makes certain our soles and toes are protected, and our ankles do not get twisted or sprained. And if we try, through the bottom of our boots and shoes we can feel the soft dirt, the hard rock, the slippery mud or the sand giving way to our weight.

Touching the bark of trees is as much a metaphor for diversity as it is an enhancement of our awareness of the diversity of trees and plants growing in the forest. The unexpected tickle of a spider’s cobweb or dew-covered leaf across our face reminds us that the textures of the forest all have their own unique purpose in the lifecycle of its residents.

I try to touch as much of the forest as I can during my forays into its depths. It helps me feel connected and somehow more a part of the environment than if I simply walk by not noticing the various textures the forest offers.

The smells of the forest range from the pleasant fragrance of newly bloomed foliage to the rank odor of skunk spray or a decaying carcass. Each smell elicits its own imaginings within me as I try to identify their origin. Sometimes it’s the smell of soil after a rain or the stench of dead fish washed up along the shoreline. The musky smell of hemlocks and other pines stand out for me more than hardwoods which give off hardly any smell at all.

The smells of the forest give hints to what is happening beyond the edge of the trail further into the silent green. It’s as though the pungent aroma of a moss covered log or tart scent of a decaying bird carcass are sending messages to our brain that the forest is very much alive. Alive not just in the sense of things growing and living but also changing, adjusting, balancing their existence within the exquisiteness of the ecosystem they reside, as well as dying in order to give life.

The forest is very raw. Our sense of taste from time to time captures the deliciousness of the forest as it transcends our modern tastes. Acorns for example, used for eons by native Americans, the true masters of the land, have an acidly biting taste that is not particularly appealing to my privileged pallet. Sometimes the grit of sand or dirt makes its way into our mouths, forcing us to contend with the putrid taste of dead organics or chalky sensation of ground up rock.

A taste may accidentally happen or be deliberate such as when picking a succulent grass stem and sucking on it as we trod step by careful step in the heat of the day. No matter the taste we come across in the forest, it is far removed from anything we taste that is artificially man made and packaged for our consumption by vast unknown manufacturing or processing plants well beyond the horizon from where we live. The tastes of the forest complement those we enjoy from here on Old Mission Peninsula by reminding us of the beauty of this place we live in.

Forest bathing at Old Mission State Park is so much more than a stroll along the Champs-Élysées in Paris, the macadam walkways of New York’s Central Park, or the cobblestone streets of Baltimore, Charleston and New Orleans. At its very essence, any casual walk in the Park provides an opportunity to explore with all our senses the innate calm of nature.

Our inner selves, those things entrapped in the modernity of our lives, become more alive as we search the shadows for signs of deer, fox, otters, and so many other amazing creatures that make the forest their home. It allows us to disassociate from the claptrap of the modern world which weighs down many of us. It affords us the ability to free our minds to hear, see, feel, smell and taste the natural wonders which surround those of us fortunate enough to live on Old Mission Peninsula.

For me, I find the practice of forest bathing soothing as I explore the forests of Old Mission State Park anew each time I enter. My movement between shadow and light across what is certainly sacred ground serves to enlighten me and provide perspective on the importance of taking care of oneself as well as others. That perspective comes from an inner peace which elicited from the depths of who I am by virtue of being immersed in the serenity of what is truly a marvel of nature at the end of a spit of land which myself and many others call home.

– Harry Vann Phillips