Being in nature can have a powerful effect on our body and mind. It’s like a tonic for our well-being. Research has found that it reduces blood pressure, stabilizes our heart rate, and decreases the production of stress hormones. In this week’s episode, both our storytellers discover just how therapeutic nature can be.

Part 1: Geography and Environmental Sciences Professor John Aubert is having a hard time connecting to his now teenage daughter.

John Aubert is a Professor of Geography and Environmental Sciences at American River College in Sacramento, CA. After realizing that his family and friends were finally getting tired of hearing his stories, he was ecstatic to discover that he could tell them to strangers! He has taken the stage at numerous Moth Story Slams and has been a featured storyteller for Capital Storytelling, Story Collider, Six Feet Apart Productions, and Artists Standing Strong Together. In addition to storytelling, John’s other interests include movies, hiking, fly fishing, and volunteering in his community.

Part 2: Sarah Luchini may be in over her head, literally, as she tries to cross a river while hiking on the Appalachian Trail.

Sarah Luchini is Marketing Specialist at Schoodic Institute at Acadia National Park. She is responsible for coordinating the Institute's internal and external marketing efforts to grow awareness and engagement, as well as developing and implementing marketing plans in support of the organization’s mission to inspire science, learning, and community for a changing world. Prior to joining Schoodic Institute, Luchini worked as Lead Graphic Designer at Downeast Graphics & Printing, a print and graphics studio where she worked seamlessly in print and web-based design. Luchini holds a Bachelors of Fine Art degree from Lesley University College of Art & Design, with a background in fine art and art history. Her work has been shown in exhibitions throughout Maine, Boston, and Florence, Italy, and she has worked in art galleries in Massachusetts and along the Maine coast. Born and raised in Ellsworth, Maine, Sarah has a passion for outdoor recreation and exploring her local landscapes. In her free time, Sarah enjoys being out on the trails hiking and biking, or paddleboarding at home with her cat, Murray (yes, Murray always wears a life vest!).

Episode Transcript

Part 1

The hour‑long drive was silent, tense. I was angry. I was heartbroken. I was lost. This was definitely not the parenting experience I'd signed up for.

We were once so close. Hiking companions, book buddies, fellow adventurers. And now, it was all drifting away. Looking back at her in the rearview mirror, her teenage gaze seemed filled with disdain.

Now, I always liked kids but I wasn't remotely prepared for the depth of love, heartache and emotional investment I would come to experience as a new father.

To our dismay, parenting didn't start off so well for my wife Nancy and me as Jennie landed in the NICU with breathing problems when she was born. The NICU, the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, while we were grateful for the wonders of modern medical science, the whole experience was stressful and emotionally draining.

The second night, sensing that my rock star wife was nearing complete exhaustion, I encouraged her to get some rest and assured her that I would wake up and be at the hospital for the scheduled 3:00 AM feeding, because that's how they roll in the NICU whether we liked it or not.

As I walked in, the friendly nurses looked at me quizzically and asked me what I was doing there.

“I'm here to take care of my little girl,” I said with my newfound sense of paternal pride and responsibility.

Sitting in that sterile room, holding her, giving her a bottle, gazing into her beautiful little face, all worry melted away. We were the only two souls in the universe.

Thankfully, she made a full recovery. I poured myself into fatherhood. I took her hiking, read her book after book and sang her songs at bedtime every night.

When she was about six, I started to make up elaborate serialized bedtime stories about an adventurous little chihuahua named Minty. Just when I thought I couldn't come up with another installment, she'd say, “Daddy, please just one more.”

I adored that little girl and she adored me. But little girls grow up. They become independent and they need to distance themselves from their parents.

My wife dealt with this so much better than me. She was just better at letting her grow up than I was. For me, it was death by a thousand cuts.

Now, there's nothing remarkable or out of the ordinary about the evolution of our relationship. At some point, dads lose their luster and a teenager just needs to find herself on her own terms. My rational brain understood that but it was heartbreaking for me nonetheless. I missed my little girl.

So that was the fragile landscape of our relationship as I looked back at my 13‑year‑old in the rearview mirror that morning, racing to catch a boat. We'd flown back to Ohio to join some of my wife's family on a grand summer road trip to Canada. We eventually made our way to a small village east of Quebec City on the St. Lawrence River.

As a geography teacher and nature lover, I was beside myself. We rented a place overlooking the massive river, ate poutine, stood at the edge of a huge, thundering waterfall, explored the northern hemisphere's most southerly fjord, ventured into a half‑billion‑year‑old meteorite impact crater and on and on. It was glorious. So good for the soul.

At one point, I commiserated with my brother-in-law about teenager woes and he said that his daughter, only a few years older than mine, hadn't spoken with him in two months. Not a single word. That scared the crap out of me.

So the day comes that we all decide to pile in the car and go whale watching and Jennie refuses to go just as we're ready to drive away.

“We've come 3,000 miles and you just want to sit inside and stare at a screen. You've got to be kidding me,” I said angrily. “Are you trying to ruin everyone's vacation?” I threw in just for good measure, instantly regretting it.

Fortunately, my wife stepped in calmly and convinced her to come.

My heart was heavy. After enduring that somber drive, we finally arrived at a small village situated roughly where the St. Lawrence river opens into the Atlantic Ocean.

We opted for a Zodiac where you're close to the water and actually have to suit up in foul‑weather gear to keep dry. Seven of us kids and adults climbed aboard and sped away for encounters unknown.

It is awesome, magical. We see whales in the distance through the mist. Then a large pod of belugas just a hundred yards away. Then, not ten feet off the port side of the boat, I notice a ring of bubbles begin to rise out of the water. My heart starts to race. I can barely speak.

Finally I say, “Look, look, look!”

Just then, a massive humpback whale with her cavernous maw wide open rises from the water right in front of us, scooping up thousands of krill before rolling slowly onto her side and disappearing into the blue black. It is unbelievable. An intense, emotional, deeply affecting experience.

I look back to see everyone's reaction and my eyes pause on Jennie, her face peering out of the tightly‑drawn hood of her parka. I don't know how, I don't know why, but in that moment I am instantly catapulted a decade into the past. Against all logic and reason, I am looking at the face of my precious little three‑year‑old, beaming with wonder and pure delight.

As I gaze at her face, I am completely overcome with emotion, a paralyzing mix of fear, joy, bewilderment and love. I am having an utterly terrifying and exquisitely beautiful break from reality.

There she is, my little girl. I turn away and weep into the sea, realizing that she's been with me all along.

Thank you.

Part 2

I've got a 40‑pound pack on my back, sweaty shoulder straps digging in and freezing cold water rushing through my Crocs as I step into the raging river. I've only just begun and I'm already annoyed with myself. Why do I choose to spend my vacation time putting my body through the hell of backpacking a hundred miles through Maine's wilderness? I could be relaxing on a beach with a drink. That would be lovely.

It would be great if that was my idea of how to spend a vacation. But, honestly, spending a week out in Maine's woods, hiking every day through dense forests and mountains, barely seeing any signs of human life, not having to shower for a week and just living the simplicity of eat, sleep, hike, repeat, that's my idea of a good time.

So here I am, heading northbound through Maine's wilderness. And for those who don't know, the Hundred‑Mile Wilderness is a hundred‑mile section of the Appalachian Trail that reaches just before the northern terminus of Mount Katahdin in Baxter State Park. It's known as the most rugged and remote section of the AT, which stretches from Georgia to Maine, and is the longest section without any intersecting towns, so resupplies are pretty tough.

At this point in time, I'd never done any backpacking before. Lots of hiking but never any backpacking. But I figured why not start with the most rugged and remote section of the AT?

I do love a good challenge and, for me, hiking has always been my favorite form of therapy, a way to quiet my mind, ease any racing thoughts to prove to myself that I am capable and strong.

So, here I am, six miles in, 94 miles to go, facing my first river ford. And I'd also never forded a river before. I mean rock hop through streams, sure, but crossing a raging river with a heavy pack on my back that's just threatening to pull me in or throw me sideways, I mean there's a good reason why everyone says unclip your hip belt as you're crossing. Terrifying.

But I'm in it now. I step forward slowly into the water, not taking a single step for granted. Easing forward, trying to navigate with my feet any possible dips or holes. I can't slip and fall in. I can't. If I do, if I do fall in, my gear will get soaked and the next seven days will be soggy, miserable and cold.

Or maybe even worse. I'll fall in. My gear will go flying down the rapids. I'll lose my 14‑pound food bag, all my gear. I'll have to chase through the rapids to collect every last bit of gear so as to not leave a trace and also survive the next seven days, as I hope to do.

So I ease forward slowly. The water already, even just a few steps in, is deep and crashing around me, already starting to throw my body side to side. I step forward and, without looking up, I can feel the protective shadow of the tree canopy above me fall away and a blast of sun hits my shoulders. It's so hot.

But I realize in this moment I've never been so focused, so present on everything that's going on around me. It's like everything I'm seeing and feeling in this moment, the water, the crashing rapids, the sun, that's all I'm focusing on. There's no thoughts of impending deadlines or work schedules or how my tone in that one email two years ago was probably weird or that awkward thing I said at a party last week. My mind is present in this moment.

And I ease forward slowly, carefully. Then I'm just feeling the sun. Being present in this moment means that all I can focus on is this heat, this sweltering heat. September in Maine and it is so hot and, already, I'm starting to crave a slight comfort of home, chocolate ice cream. That's what I want.

I know that six miles on trail is too soon for hiker hunger to set in but I am really craving this chocolate ice cream. Just digging into the carton, spooning around the edges where it's already melted and smooth, ah, that's what I'd kill for.

And you know when you're craving something so intensely, you can basically taste it. In this moment I can taste the chocolate ice cream.

And then, for the first time since I've been on trail, my mind is suddenly transported out of this moment, away from the river, from the rapids, from the threat of falling in, losing my gear or not making it across and, suddenly, I'm back on my parents’ couch with Allison, my big sister.

There's a mushy carton of chocolate ice cream that sits between us and Allison's digging in, licking the spoon and laughing. Allison, my big sister who always shamelessly ignored her lactose intolerance, usually to the dismay of those around her, naturally. And behind us from my dad's speakers All Out of Love by Air Supply is playing loudly and we're singing that ugly, cringey kind of singing where you know you sound awful but you just don't care.

And I'm standing in the water, in the rapids crashing around me, but I can hear Air Supply and I realize it's me. I'm singing, “I'm all out of love. I'm so lost without you…”

I start to laugh at the hilarity of a song that truly does not fit the moment. I mean, if this was a movie, it would be the perfect song at the perfect moment. It would be a beautiful song to score this beautiful scene. It would not be Air Supply.

One more step forward, still singing one more ridiculous verse, and the water is rising now. I look below me and it's black. Deep water, dark and foreboding, and it's crashing around me, throwing my body side to side. I have to stand tall to keep the bottom of my pack from getting saturated and wet but still maintaining my balance.

But I can still see Allison's smile. I can see the little twinkle in her eye when she'd roll her eyes at me as I remind her, “You know, you're very lactose intolerant.”

So I take another step forward, easing slowly still, still trying to anticipate any sudden holes or dips with my feet. And I'm focused on the water crashing around me but, in my mind, scenes from my parents’ couch are playing on a loop. I can't seem to get the taste of chocolate ice cream off my tongue or the look of glee on Allison's face out of my head.

I take another step forward and I realize the water is moving a little slower now. I'm no longer being thrown side to side. My legs are wet but exposed to the sun. And I look and I can see the shore, the other bank ahead of me, so close within reach.

I looked down and the water, once black and dark, now, is clear and I can see the bottom. The rocks under my feet feel small, smoother, fewer jagged edges. And the water is moving slower.

I take another step forward and I'm still hearing Allison's laugh. One more step and the water is easily lapping against the bank ahead of me. I'm so close. Am I actually going to make it across?

I take one more step and I'm out of the river. I turn and I look at the rapids now behind me and I can still see Allison's smile. In that moment, I miss her.

Allison died by Suicide when she was 24 after a long battle with major depression. You know, everyone says that grief comes in waves. Well, I think it comes in crashing river rapids.

Six days later, after that first river ford and after many, many other river fords, many ramen bombs and bear hangs and many, many miles, I crossed Abol Bridge in Baxter State Park successfully completing the Hundred‑Mile Wilderness, my first section hike of the Appalachian Trail. And staring up at Mount Katahdin in front of me, Allison wasn't with me to celebrate but I did get the last of the chocolate ice cream at the campground store so I think maybe she had a little something to do with that.

Thank you.