How Company Alters the Measure of a Walk

View from the top of Mt. Baldy, along the Ridgeline Trail, Eugene (my photo).

I’ve been walking a lot lately, often in the company of two colleagues from my architectural life, fellow retirees Dave Guadagni and J.F. Alberson. We make the rounds of the usual places, including the Mt. Pisgah Arboretum, Dorris Ranch, Delta Ponds, the Ridgeline Trail, and the Amazon corridor. Most excursions cover four or five miles. These are familiar routes, ones we return to regularly. 

What I’ve noticed is how differently those same distances register depending on whether I’m alone or with company. On my own, I’m more aware of the length of things, be it the stretch between landmarks, the grade of a hill, or the time it will take to loop back. When it’s the three of us, the distance feels shorter. Conversation, a shared pace, and the occasional stop to look more closely at something alter the measure of the route. The walk becomes less about getting from one point to another and more about the ground between them. The end arrives sooner than expected. It isn’t only the miles that compress, but what we notice shifts as well. 

J.F. brings birding into the mix, which changes what comes into view. Avian species I’ve apparently been sharing space with for years—Belted Kingfishers, Pied-Billed Grebes, Brown Creepers, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, and more—suddenly register. He’ll pause and point out something I would have passed without a second thought. Nothing about the setting has changed, but my perception has. 

Retirement makes this rhythm possible. The days are more open, and the walks don’t have to be fitted into narrow margins of time. Familiar places can be revisited without urgency, simply to see them again. Repetition reveals small shifts: light striking the same bend of trail differently in winter than in summer, foliage thickening or thinning from week to week, and bird patterns subtly changing. The routes themselves are unchanged, but their reading is not. I’ve yet to see a beaver, an otter, or a fox along these paths, though I know they’re present, a reminder that there is still more to notice.