Walking toward Wisdom: the Aporetics of Hiking

Hiking and philosophy go together like a pair of comfortable trail shoes and moisture-wicking socks. Whether one prefers all-day wilderness treks like Henry David Thoreau, or thoughtful urban strolls à la Hannah Arendt, hiking can deepen one’s habits of attention, resilience, and care. Empirical studies now affirm what these figures intuited, that walking improves one’s mood, strengthens community bonds, and enhances capacities for self-reflection. In this way, hiking is more than leisure —it’s a practice with philosophical and ethical significance, one that invites us to consider how inhabitation and movement through space shape our orientation towards others, ourselves, and the planet.

With a research background in global philosophical traditions, I’ve gained a deep sense of solidarity from discovering thoughtful walking near the roots of so many intellectual traditions. Among the Greeks, Aristotle’s students became known as the peripatētikoí —or, “those who walk around”—for the way he lectured while walking the grounds of the Lyceum. Itinerant Daoist sages in China touted the importance of yúnyóu (or “cloud-walking”), a way of recognizing one’s own internal transformations as reflections of the external changes in the countryside. And, in Ontario’s Pukaskwa National Park, hikers can still follow a trail called the Bimose Kinoomagenwnan, dedicated to the Seven Grandfather Teachings of the Anishinaabe. These traditions all recognized how walking in nature can help us to slow down, gain perspective, and better understand what matters most in our lives. Considering this, I started incorporating philosophical hikes —”wisdom walks”—into my Environmental Ethics course a few years ago and was immediately struck by the enthusiasm with which students responded. Through the generosity of the American Association of Philosophy Teachers’ (AAPT) Innovation in Teaching Grant, I’ve been able to incorporate hikes into other courses and have begun building an assortment of philosophical-hiking texts that can support student research.

It turns out there are plenty of footholds available in the history of western philosophy from which philosophical hiking can be explored, too. Kant, whose regimented, daily constitutional through Königsberg is now known as “the Philosopher’s Walk” wrote in his first book: “After losing one’s way a thousand times, the insights gained often surpass the knowledge acquired from keeping to the well-worn path.” Rousseau, who was preparing a manuscript titled Reveries of a Solitary Walker at the time of his death, shared that “during these wanderings, my soul roams and takes flight through the universe on the wings of imagination.” Nietzsche spent months hiking the Swiss Alps and advised readers of Ecce Homo to “sit as little as possible” and distrust any idea “not born in the open air and of free movement.” Thoreau was almost fanatical about what he called sauntering and in his personal journal admitted: “the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.”

No matter what they called the activity, these philosophers were a step ahead in recognizing that hiking cultivates creativity, open-mindedness, and a greater sense of responsibility. But, I think there’s an even deeper connection between hiking and philosophy stretching all the way back to the Socratic elenchus. Anyone familiar with Plato’s dramatizations of his mentor will recall Socrates’ claim that, as the questioner, he must travel wherever the answerer leads…as a vessel runs before the wind. That’s how Socrates could guide without directing, teach without instructing. Unlike others of his day, he wasn’t concerned with scoring argumentative points, dazzling crowds, or even starting a cult. His heading was understanding, however hidden, and ushering his fellow Athenians toward more meaningful life paths. Given such an open-ended pursuit, it’s probably no coincidence that so many of Plato’s dialogues end in aporia—i.e., the kind of feeling one gets when lost in an intellectual thicket.

When considering how the elenchus works, I often reflect on my early childhood experiences with my father, hiking through the palmetto fronds and pine flats of North Florida. Dad was neither philosophically trained nor an accomplished woodsman, but he devised an unconventional way of teaching me how to find my own way…whether on trail or driving around my hometown. He’d take me out to some unfamiliar place and say, “Now, you lead us back.” If I asked which direction to take, he’d answer my question with more questions: “What way do you think is best?” “Why does that feel right to you?” “Look around, what do you notice about where we are?” This was far from the quickest way to get back, but it was the surest way to teach me how to pay attention, think for myself, and cultivate my intuitions. Dad was preparing me for a life of finding my own way —without him. Socrates, I think, was trying to do something similar. He didn’t offer maps or charts. He was teaching the art of philosophical way-finding – one where the goal was less about arriving and more about traversing one’s life wisely.

But, the elenchus requires a willing companion. In graduate school, I tried to help a friend with his horrible sense of direction by using my father’s method. Instead of taking him out into the woods, I invited him out for a drink in a part of town to which I knew he had never been. As we were ready to drive home, I used the excuse of having had a second beer to get him behind the wheel. Being a good friend, and someone who never had more than one drink, he was more than happy to take the wheel. Whenever we came to an intersection and he asked which way to go, I would answer the way my father had answered me. As you might imagine, my friend was not pleased—even after I revealed how I was trying to help him! He became frustrated, pulled the car over, and refused to continue unless I gave him clear directions.

This may be another explanation for the aporia found in Plato’s dialogues. Many interlocutors, like my friend, were reluctant to join Socrates on his quest for truth, grew frustrated, and turned away. The elenchus may be uncomfortable — as uncomfortable as feeling lost in the woods —but the goal is to benefit the one answering the questions, just as an unsavory tonic might fortify the health of the one who drinks it. So, we might take the aporetic ending of Socrates’ conversations as invitations for deeper inquiry —and the fact that they are immortalized by Plato, one interlocutor who did not turn away, is a testament to the power of such philosophical way-finding.

A few philosophical hikers atop eastern Washington’s Antoine Peak. Picture taken by the author.

This analogy with hiking is, I think, a very close fit. But there’s one key difference: my father knew the way back to camp. Socrates, at least by his own admissions, didn’t know his ultimate destination. Scholars disagree on how to handle this. Some say if Socrates really is acting as a guide, he can’t be serious when he claims to be full of doubt. They call it Socratic irony. Others think the Socratic claims to ignorance indicate that pursuing truth philosophically can never lead to absolute certainty about anything. They call it Socratic skepticism. But, I think there are other ways to think about the elenchus, which have become clearer to me now that I’m a father, teaching my own kids how to find their way.

Even though he knew most of the trails, Dad would occasionally express genuine surprise whenever I stumbled across a new path, sometimes even a shortcut, of which he was unaware. So, even the guide —when truly open —can be taught something new by the student. More often, though, I’d manage to lead us into unfamiliar territory, and we’d end up good and lost! Dad never panicked. He knew the general direction we needed to head and which trails might lead us further astray from that goal. Similarly, I think Socrates didn’t need to be certain of his philosophical destination in order to spot dead ends. After all, negation is one of the quickest ways to turn an inductive causal argument into a deductive modus tollens.

In all those hikes with Dad, there’s one moment that’s always stayed with me, though. After a particularly long and frustrating return, I asked him why he insisted on traipsing about with me when he could have just led us out directly. He put his hand on my shoulder, looked at me and said, “Son, we’re not just learning the way to get back. We’re also learning about each other.” That, I believe, is the moral heart of the elenchus – something that is often overlooked. The elenchus is not just a mental exercise. It’s a relational one. The guide must model patience, curiosity, and compassion. The learner must cultivate intellectual humility, attentiveness, and self-reliance. And both, if they’re honest and committed, build something more than knowledge: a bond of trust and a shared respect for the process of inquiry. That kind of relationship is the foundation not just of healthy families, or even healthy classrooms, but is perhaps the bedrock of a healthy democracy, as well.