Take the Exit
Many of the subjects I photograph are within walking distance of my home. I’ve learned that traveling far isn’t necessary to take meaningful photos—there’s creative potential all around. I stay inspired by setting aside preconceptions about my subject before taking its picture, looking at it as if for the first time. By paying close attention, I begin to understand how an acorn is as great a wonder as the Grand Canyon. Observing my surroundings this way has deepened my appreciation for them, and I’ve come to believe that the wisest way to see the world is to stay where we are and grow deep roots.
Though I find fulfillment in photographing nearby places, I’m not immune to wanderlust. Sometimes, I’ll drive to a neighboring town for a change of scenery, taking slow back roads and timing my arrival with the sun’s golden hours. When the sun’s schedule is ahead of mine, I opt for the highway, as I did recently while heading to a nature preserve southwest of Findlay. Wanting to shave a few precious minutes off my arrival, I merged onto the freeway like a blood cell rushing from a vein into an artery.
As a teenager, driving fast on an open road was exhilarating. Now, as an adult who rarely drives (my commute is a short walk from home), the thrill has been replaced by boredom and a vague sense of gloom. I’m hyperaware of our disconnection from nature when speeding down an asphalt desert in a fossil-fuel-burning metal box, surrounded by countless strangers. We hurtle past meaningless billboards, roadside trash, and flattened animals, too many of us headed somewhere we’d rather not be. It feels surreal, traversing vast swaths of land without being humbled by their magnitude, unable to give them the close consideration one can on foot. But the strangeness of freeways and modern life is easy to ignore when we’re comfortably numb in climate-controlled vehicles, lost in music, podcasts, or distant thoughts—our minds always elsewhere.
I arrived at Oakwoods in twenty mind-numbing minutes and eagerly stepped out of the car, stretching in the golden light. I felt relieved to have escaped the chaos of the morning rush hour… almost. Though Oakwoods is beautiful, it sits right off I-75, and a constant hum of highway traffic permeates the park. I paused, amused by the irony—just moments ago, my car was part of the same mechanical choir that now nags me.
Noise pollution (light pollution too, but that’s another essay) has weighed on my mind for years. Until recently, I lived in quiet country places, and I suppose this time alone with nature heightened my sensitivity to sound. Last June, I moved to the quaint village of Carey, where I was surprised by the sheer variety of man-made noise. Our house is near a fire station, limestone quarry, brewery, factory, recycling center, and railway, on a road frequented by semi-trucks. Adding to the cacophony is a growing population of drivers with loud engines and exhausts, who seem to delight in being obnoxious day and night. Fixating on these invasive sounds has only made them more noticeable. I let the thought ping-pong in my head a moment longer before deciding to end my cynicism. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stepped onto the trail. If I couldn’t find total peace in my surroundings, I’d find it in my mind.
With the help of trees, the freeway grew quieter as I wound through the woods, yet its hum remained, like the flicker of a fluorescent bulb—never quite ignorable. I felt a subtle stress simmer inside me, a feeling I imagine is constant for those living in bustling cities. I pulled out my camera and considered how photography teaches us the importance of perspective. I listened to the highway with its sound stripped of context, the way I sometimes look at my subjects. I imagined myself in a time before automobiles, hearing the traffic as some shadowy beast groaning in the distant forest, occasionally letting out an abrasive roar—car tires drifting over rumble strips. This beast, a symbiosis of pavement and people, has existed since the 1950s and isn’t going away anytime soon. It’s as much a part of the soundscape as birdsong and buzzing bees, perhaps one day outlasting them.
With that thought, I found it easier to forgive this one downfall of society. I remind myself that good and evil are two sides of the same coin, yet sometimes, I struggle to see the good. What if the universe is unfolding exactly as it should, and all I need to do is ride the wave? I let the beast’s calls dissolve into the background, shifting my attention to other senses. I watched a squirrel balance on a branch above me, inhaled the scent of wildflowers below, and ran my hand along a moss-covered log. Then I took a deep breath.
Noise pollution isn’t a high-priority issue for many. Unlike the landscape, the soundscape isn’t visible, so we may not react as strongly to traffic noise as we do to deforestation, parking lots, or skyscrapers. We also adapt well to gradual changes, often failing to recognize a problem until it becomes impossible to ignore. But our experience of the world is shaped through our senses, and if we pollute our surroundings with toxic substances, sounds, sights, and smells, we inevitably pollute ourselves—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Albert Einstein once said, “The greatest illusion in this world is the illusion of separation.” And I’d have to agree.
There are many aspects of our environment we can’t control, yet the older I get, the more I realize how much we can. Like junk food, I can limit my intake of what I consider noise pollution. I wear noise-reducing earplugs when I need to focus, relax, or escape the din of the world. These buds lower noise evenly across all frequencies, so I can still hear music and conversation, but not the neighbor’s lawnmower, the fridge’s hum, or the “cool guy” in the big truck. Putting them in feels like stepping outside of a crowded room. I know they’re just a Band-Aid solution, so I’m grateful to have access to quiet spaces, some still untouched by the highway’s reach. I visit them as often as I can, hoping they’ll always be safe from unsettling sound. More importantly, I’ve found solace in knowing that if we choose to, we can create environments that are in harmony with nature—and ourselves.
I left Oakwoods and merged once again into the stream of automobiles. On foot, the same route home would take me six hours. So, this is the trade we’ve made. Highways are unsightly, cars are loud and polluting, but together, they take us farther and faster than our natural bodies ever could. What else have we gained? Today, we are largely dependent on the beast. In America, cities are built for cars, not people. Few of us live within reasonable walking or biking distance from a grocery store or workplace. From space, Earth must seem like a planet inhabited by cars. Why do we justify decisions before fully considering what we’re giving up? Like the Internet, highways were supposed to connect us, to bring us closer. But have they done the opposite? Families move apart. Communities shop elsewhere, work elsewhere, vacation elsewhere. Why invest in where we live when we can easily leave for somewhere “better”?
What I love most about travel is how it breaks routine, allowing us to reflect on our lives objectively. Last month, my husband and I drove to the East Coast for our honeymoon. It was novel and nice, but unnecessary. How much of travel is frivolous? Our greatest takeaway was that we want to grow roots—to become an essential part of a place we’ve shaped with hard work, nature, and love—so that we never feel the need to escape it. We tend to associate driving with freedom, but I feel most free when I don’t need to spend money on gas or time in traffic. I feel most free on two feet, walking toward a simpler, quieter life
