My timid dog has come to love the outdoors
So have I. How did Scout transform from a homebody clinger to (as my partner lovingly jokes) a “feral maniac”?
When I adopted my blue heeler, she’d barely sniff on neighborhood walks. She hackled at unfamiliar trails. She jumped to avoid the littlest puddles. Even after a year together she couldn’t play outdoors for more than a few seconds—she was always so concerned by the external world. A plastic bag crinkling in the wind, a piece of furniture abandoned on the sidewalk, an unseen creature rustling in the underbrush… Everything outside was either scary or had the potential to be.
Today? Scout loves nothing more than romping through a national forest or sunbathing on BLM land. Since moving into our converted van, she’s been to 47 states and nine Canadian provinces, spending the bulk of that time immersed in fresh air. (When your entire living space doesn’t amount to 70 square feet, you find yourself outdoors a lot.)
Our cattle dog has spotted dolphins off Florida’s space coast, played tug in front of Denali’s peak, and rolled atop Utah’s red sand. She’s rarely too overwhelmed to sniff a new environment especially if it’s remote, and even if it’s raining or snowing. She can let loose almost everywhere we stop. The moment we cut the engine she begs us to open the sliding door—and when she’s greeted by a gust of middle-of-nowhere air, a visible spring appears in her aging step.
Scout digs now. (We tried for months to get her interested in this classic “dog thing” on the beach near our old house; she would not have it.) She wades in water willingly. (I also insisted she learn to swim during our time in the Sunshine State, but she glared reproachfully each time.) She still checks in every dozen steps on hikes—without this off-leash reliability we’d never unclip her in the first place—but feels confident enough to roam ahead, leaping over tree roots and rock formations, tongue lolling comically.
Even in urban environments she loves to be outside. For a while I wondered if this was mostly because of our van’s size—perhaps she felt confined?—but she’s happy to curl on the bed or cab seat for hours on end. Roaming doesn’t even seem required for her to feel satisfied when we are out: She’ll sit in a public park or tightly developed campground, just feet from our open door, blissed beneath the sun.
Of course she loves to run. Of course she loves to sniff. But what she loves best is simply existing outdoors. Tasting the fresh air. Feeling an afternoon’s warmth. Listening to nature’s rhythms.
Play, resilience, and nature’s positive feedback loop
What happened to the creature who folded her ears back against any sort of drizzle? The one who tucked her tail in moderate wind? Like most things, I think Scout’s growth is a combination of nature and nurture: both instincts and intentional work. She is, by virtue of being a dog, an animal with a deep connection to the natural world. As we built her confidence, she shed the layer of hesitation clouding that connection. And as she felt that connection more intensely, her confidence grew further. It’s the best kind of cycle.
When we moved to Florida in 2020, I desperately wanted to turn a new leaf in Scout’s timidity. We spent ages sitting outside our apartment—the complex conveniently bordered a massive public park—watching the world go by. (Our new state’s amiable yearlong weather helped create these opportunities.) Eventually we were able to play outside, at first for just a minute, then longer and longer until we’d spend whole mornings switching between frisbee fetch and tug, sprawling on the soccer fields to rest between games. Through consistent exposure and practice and the pure joy of play Scout learned the outside world wasn’t always frightening. It could be interesting. It could be fun. It could even be comforting.
Years later I thought of her when I climbed the Precipice Trail in Acadia National Park. The ladders and cliff edges and sheer height of slick rock terrified me. I cried once (and came close to tears twice more). But I did it. I pushed through with my partner’s support and my cattle dog’s playful pounce repeating in my mind’s eye. If Scout could conquer so many fears, couldn’t I do the same?
The following spring we returned to Acadia. Precipice was closed for falcon nesting, but its cousin, Beehive, was open—and I felt scared all over again. We hiked the trail three days in a row, first thing in the morning, until I could climb with confidence. I realized that’s exactly what we did with Scout when we encouraged her to push through the beach’s gusts of wind to focus on playing tug with us. When we asked her to believe the tree’s dancing leaves wouldn’t hurt her. When we spent more and more time parked in open spaces until she was able to settle in, trust the ground beneath her paws, and find comfort in her home’s proximity without needing to be inside it to feel secure.
My dog and I have grown together. Instead of being intimidated by outdoor activities, we’ve come to see them as fun challenges—as games we can share, as riveting adventures, as, above all, things we are capable of.
And when the play is done? We relax. Scout sprawls on her side when she feels particularly content. (She looks flat when she does this, like she’s trying to melt beneath the earth’s crust.) I know she’s most comfortable when she rolls onto her back with belly exposed. I always liked the sight, but it took me a while to realize she was grounding.
Now lying on the earth is one of my favorite things, too.
Before I adopted my dog I wouldn’t have called myself “outdoorsy.” Even after we’d had her for a few years our adventures consisted mostly of local park jogs. While I wasn’t afraid to get a little messy, I certainly wouldn’t embark on muddy hikes or sit in sweat any longer than absolutely necessary. Each time we returned home from the beach I insisted on rinsing Scout—often washing fully with shampoo—and taking my own shower.
Witnessing my timid heeler become “one” with the natural world helped me realize how much I craved that myself. Her transformation ignited my own. If outside is my dog’s favorite place to be—if time in nature can help her feel fulfilled, purposeful, alive—why wouldn’t I share it with her as often as possible?
Why we love being outdoors
Spending time outside (enjoying a huge range of activities) energizes us. “Vitality is defined as having physical and mental energy,” write researchers in the Journal of Environmental Psychology. “Being outdoors was associated with greater [levels of it].”
Nature is interesting. Exercising outdoors might have more benefits than the same cardio or strength effort inside. Varied terrain is particularly exciting for Scout—navigating Utah’s slot canyons and sandy washes, northern Wisconsin’s fallen trees, and Colorado’s mountain slopes seems to fulfill her more than indoor obstacle courses. A 2017 Health & Place paper agrees that “rough or uneven ground can generate a positive ground-feel and therapeutic tactility.”
Scout’s sense of smell dwarves my own. When I light a candle, I get used to the scent—she never does. Still, stiff air bothers her more than I’d ever notice.
It’s the same with artificial sounds like our fridge and water pump and engine adjustments. Being outside must feel like a reprieve: It’s not always quiet, no, but the noises match the environment.
Scout and I both know, almost immediately, when we aren’t getting enough immersive outdoor time. I’m not here to tell you nature is a cure to every modern day woe—that’s reductionist—but it never hurts. When my dog’s on edge? She yearns to sniff bushes and dirt and rocks. When we’re struggling to stay alert? We need to reset our circadian rhythms with morning light. When I’m in a creative slump? I crave bare earth beneath my feet.
Once our basic needs are met, there’s nothing we value more than fresh air—and I’m increasingly coming to see the outdoors as a basic need. Today we are forest creatures, desert creatures, mountain creatures, beach creatures, it-doesn’t-matter-as-long-as-there’s-sun-on-my-face creatures. We are dirtier than ever, me and this cattle dog.
Happier than ever, too.