We All Leave Something Behind

I grew up backpacking—literally.

I was born on Halloween, and by the time I was three months old, my parents had tucked me into the top of a backpack and headed into the Utah wilderness. Looking back, it seems a little crazy. Looking back, it also seems perfectly fitting.

Some of my earliest lessons didn't happen in a classroom. They happened in canyons.

My dad, a true product of the hippie era and one of my greatest heroes, taught us the principles of Leave No Trace long before they became widely known. His philosophy was simple:

Take only memories. Leave only footprints.

When it was time to leave camp, our job wasn't finished when our backpacks were loaded.

We became Olympic discus throwers, scattering the sticks we'd gathered for the fire back into the surrounding landscape. The rocks we'd collected for camp chairs were returned to where we'd found them. We'd find a sturdy sagebrush branch and sweep away our footprints as best we could at the campsite. We searched every inch of camp for forgotten Starburst wrappers or stray pieces of trash.

If we found someone else's garbage along the trail, we packed it out too.

The goal wasn't simply to leave the campsite clean.

The goal was to leave it looking as though we'd never been there.

As a child, I thought it was just part of camping.

As an adult, I realize it shaped the way I see the world.

It taught me to respect the land.

But it also taught me to respect the people who would come after me.

There is something magical about hiking into a hidden canyon or standing on a summit after a long, difficult climb. For a brief moment, it feels as though you're the very first person to have discovered that place.

Then you notice a candy wrapper tucked beneath a rock.

Or initials carved into a tree.

Or someone's name spray-painted across sandstone that took millions of years to form.

The spell is broken.

(Though I'll admit, for a split second I sometimes try to convince myself the wrapper might be from an ancient Ancestral Puebloan civilization... until reality sets in.)

Nature has a way of making us feel small in the very best way.

It reminds us that this world existed long before we arrived and, if we're careful, will continue long after we're gone.

I wonder what it would look like if we lived the rest of our lives with the same Leave No Trace philosophy.

Not because we want to disappear.

But because we want to leave things better than we found them.

What footprints are we leaving in the lives of the people around us?

When someone walks away from a conversation with us, what do they carry with them?

Are we leaving behind encouragement or criticism?

Peace or chaos?

Kindness or carelessness?

Do the places we spend our time become more beautiful because we were there?

The older I get, the more I realize that stewardship isn't just about taking care of the wilderness.

It's about taking care of whatever has been entrusted to us.

The land.

Our homes.

Our relationships.

Our communities.

Our own hearts.

We all leave something behind.

The question is, what will it be?