When you’re from Idaho, people only seem to ask you about one thing: “Potatoes?” And when you’re from Idaho you always respond “yes,” because you don’t want anyone to go there and foul up your state.
But Idaho is more than its commercial crop (which, incidentally, is corn).
It is a canvas colored by canyons, creeks, peaks, lakes, hills and lonely mountains — an exposed and austere wilderness with a population density of fewer than 20 people per square mile. You can go on a bike ride and see no one for hours, or days, if you so desire.
There is no place better or more beautiful to be alone — a secret well-kept from outdoor enthusiasts.
Coming to clustered California is a shock to the system after 18-plus years of relative isolation.
My first week at Pepperdine I was overwhelmed by the masses and manufacturing. I saw the hills but didn’t know how to reach them. The available landscape seemed like bonsai on a big scale — manufactured and constrained by the dictates of humankind.
I would look at the ocean and say, “That’s not real,” and whenever I touched a palm tree it consolidated my conviction that Malibu is an extensive set established by Hollywood.
I began to suffer from communal claustrophobia, hemmed in by humanity to the point of hyperventilation and cramped enough for a mental breakdown.
But little by little I began finding the places for solitude. I went on hikes with campus recreation, probed abandoned areas with new friends and fellow introverted enthusiasts and uncovered routes to run on my own.
I am at home anywhere in the hills. They calm my soul and restore breathing room for cognitive and creative processes. The Santa Monica Mountains are an oasis of desert in the widespread wash of cultivation; the aimless trails traversing them are direct connections with the veins of the divine.
In short, I found my potatoes.
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Follow Alex on Twitter: @alex_pepperdine
As published in the Sept. 12 issue of the Pepperdine Graphic.