There comes a point when the city gets into your bloodstream like a toxic drip. Portland has a way of crawling under your skin until every nerve feels raw. The streets are cracked and twitching, the air heavy with exhaust and human desperation, and the sidewalks scream louder than the politicians who pretend not to hear them. They all want the spotlight when there’s a ribbon to cut or a headline to grab, but when the city starts to collapse under the weight of its own creation, when bodies slump against cold stone and the stench of failure is undeniable, nobody wants to take credit. They step back and call it someone else’s problem. But the city is man’s doing. Every light, every broken slab of concrete, every desperate figure sleeping in the doorway belongs to us. And it reeks of neglect.

So I walked away. Out of the concrete sprawl and into the woods, because out there the reset begins the second your boots touch dirt. The air is sharper, uncorrupted, carrying the weight of centuries without choking you. The trees rise like ancient guardians, unconcerned with human failure, unmoved by headlines or excuses. A squirrel clings to the bark of an oak, black eyes glittering with suspicion, and in that moment the world makes sense in a way the city never can. The trail twists ahead, littered with autumn’s first fire. Orange, gold, and crimson leaves burn against the shadows, a riot of color before the long winter sleep. My thoughts, frayed from the noise and sickness of Portland, begin to untangle with each step. Out here, there is no need for speeches, no need for salvation sold at a premium. The cure is simple: keep walking.

A spider web catches the light just ahead, a silver lattice strung with precision across the branches. It’s a trap, yes, but it’s also perfect geometry spun from instinct, delicate yet unyielding. No architect, no contractor, no politician could replicate it. The city tries with its grids and glass towers, but it always fails. Out here there is no committee, no red tape, just order born out of survival. And I wonder how we ever traded this honest brutality for Portland’s hollow spectacle.

The walk isn’t just escape, it’s preparation. My body needs the cleanse, but my mind is already on October, the next journey waiting somewhere just out of reach. We haven’t decided where yet, and that’s the beauty of it. The wilderness doesn’t care about plans or itineraries. It’s open, wild, unforgiving, and it accepts you without needing your name on a list. I don’t need an address. I don’t need permission. Just a pack, a camera, and the willingness to vanish into places untouched by man’s fumbling hands.

The city will always be there, festering and gnawing on itself. Politicians will always dodge the blame, pretending the wreckage isn’t theirs. But the woods, they belong to no one. Walking them resets the soul in ways the city never can. They remind you that the world is still alive, untamed, and magnificent, and it doesn’t care about our crumbling concrete circus. Out there, with the air sharp in my lungs and the earth steady beneath me, I am at home.

And come October, I’ll step out again wherever the trail leads, it doesn’t matter. Away from the rot of man’s making, into the wilderness that strips everything false away until only truth remains. A much-needed reset, and a reminder of where I belong.