Last week, along the Ice Age National Scenic Trail in Cross Plains, Wisconsin (Right Here!)

One of the sorrows of life together—life in a multi-racial church, where, from arrivals of new babies, to divorces, unemployment, graduations, baptisms, and celebrations, life is lived intimately—comes exactly at those moments when limits to our life together become aparent.

For me, a white man who grew up loving the outdoors, from deserts to swamps, it is more than just frustrating that social and cultural barriers make it hard for my African American friends to join me in the woods—it’s lonely.

It took me years to appreciate these barriers: experiences with racists in the woods; unpleasant moments from mosquitoes to brambles not compensated for with corresponding life-giving moments; and so on. I’ve learned that love of the outdoors has to be taught and cultivated; and that a distaste for (or fear of) the outdoors is also taught.

In other words, for most of my friends, to share in my joy is to do me a favor. These are the bridge-builders who accompany their college friends to backcountry camps, risking scary encounters with local police.

Still, I believe that nature is objectively good and beautiful. It’s the social garbage we’ve added to this good that makes nature practically inaccessible to many of my friends.

Similarly, love of nature is a taught pleasure, one passed down from generations. It’s one of the greatest treasures white Americans have to offer the world. But it’ll take more than a few picnics and camping trips for this treasure to become valuable to the rest of America.

This is a story of healing from segregation and racism that will take more than a few years to accomplish. A few generations, most likely.