editor's note

On a clear July morning, a few of my closest friends and I left our hotel in Budapest, Hungary, in search of an adventure. We made our way across the Danube River and continued to Castle Hill, where we hunted down the unassuming sign marking the entry to the Labyrinth of Buda Castle. Not knowing what to expect, we excitedly ventured off the cobblestone street and away from the morning sun and descended a narrow staircase enclosed by dark stone walls. The stairway led us to a dimly lit corridor that looked like it came straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. Our eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness when a friendly Hungarian woman greeted us and showed us where to begin our self-guided tour.

The annual parade for the Rushbearing festival at Grasmere, an ancient tradition where the villagers gather the rushes from around the lake or river, make ornaments out of them, and carry them in a procession to St. Oswald’s chapel.Last summer, while living in the green and beautiful valley of Grasmere, I felt like I had stepped into the past. I first arrived to this small village in northern England for a summer internship and saw more nature untouched by man or time than I thought possible. In addition to its vibrant color and overabundance of life, everything about Grasmere and the entire Lake District exuded a sense of timelessness that the Romantic poet William Wordsworth tried to capture in his poems. Dove Cottage, the little house he lived in for a time, was still standing, allowing visitors to come and explore life in early eighteenth-century England. Even the church he’s buried at, St. Oswald’s, still holds regular Sunday services. All the while, the forests, streams, trees, ferns, and fells surrounding the little village have an ancient feel to them that seemed entirely undisturbed. The past and the present seemed intertwined: I could have just as easily been visiting that spot more than two hundred years ago and would have seen Wordsworth walking by, muttering his poetry under his breath.

A couple of years ago, my roommates and I hopped in the car and drove from Provo, Utah, to Zion National Park for Labor Day weekend. On a shuttle from the parking lot to the trailhead, I heard this announcement over the loudspeaker: “Angels Landing is an extremely treacherous hike. Those who are accompanied by younger children or have a fear of heights should strongly reconsider.” My knees knocked together—we were hiking Angels Landing, and I really don’t like heights.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret: traveling wasn’t always my thing.

I grew up in a tourist trap, surrounded on every side by meccas for the traveler. From the front door of my childhood home, you can drive 40 minutes in any direction and end up in one of America’s must-see locations: the Golden Gate Bridge, the vineyards of Napa Valley, Redwood National Park, California’s state capitol, and the Jelly Belly factory. Even though these landmarks were a part of my backyard, they never lost their appeal.

My breathing synced with the rhythmic sound of my feet on the piney forest floor. Raindrops patted gently on the canopy far above me, but by the time the moisture descended, it was a mist—the kind that adds energy to a runner’s gait.

When I was 18, I had my first experience with international public transportation. The Tube (a rather endearing nickname for London’s underground subway system) just about dismembered me when the train doors slammed shut much too close to a few of my extremities. Somewhere in the back of my mind it occurred to me that I was probably going to need that arm later. Probably.