I was lucky to have been born and raised in the country. My childhood home was a few miles outside a small town and, other than a dozen houses scattered along our road, I was surrounded by farm fields and forests. When things at home weren’t to my liking or when my inner confusion got to be too much, I could slip out my back door, walk a few hundred yards and be in deep woods. I discovered at an early age that the world made more sense after spending time with nature.

That was life my first eleven years. In 1966, my parents moved into town and I got busy trying to fit into school and social groups. I spent hours listening to records and watched way too much TV. Then I went away to college and tried communal living and rowdy beer blasts. Life accelerated from there: finding a job, marrying and fatherhood. My first friend, nature, was forgotten.

But it hadn’t forgotten me. Once the stresses of an overly busy life began taking its toll, I started searching for how I ended up feeling out of sorts so often. Why did crowds of people rattle me so? Why did noise trigger my anxiety? I talked with friends about this; some offered suggestions, and some, comfort. One friend, though, led me to the discovery of what was lacking in my life and what I’d so deeply forgotten.

Tom is a lover of nature and among his greatest joys are hikes into the Adirondack Mountains. After we’d met and began talking about our interests, he mentioned summers spent at his family cottage nestled among those mountains. “Let’s take a day trip!” he suggested, selecting Black Bear Mountain as our first Adirondack climb. I Googled some stats on Black Bear and figured that its 3.8-mile round trip and gradual 700-foot rise in elevation was doable.

I was right. I could have easily sailed right to Bear’s peak, but, for Tom, climbing a mountain doesn’t have anything to do with reaching its summit. He took his time, which slowed me down enough to notice the branches brushing my arms. Enough to smell the pine needles and fallen leaves blanketing the earth. Enough to recognize something in me reviving.

At the top of Black Bear, I noticed a quickening of my heart. That’s odd, I thought. I knew I was in good shape, so why the rapid breathing? What had my pulse racing through my body? I stood quietly, taking in the panoramic view of Adirondack country. A song started playing in my head. “Out in the Country.”

“Out in the Country” was never my favorite Three Dog Night recording. I don’t think it was anybody’s. During their big hit years—1969 to’75—people went crazy over “Joy to the World,” or believed that “One” was the loneliest number. Their fans theorized why “Mama Told Me Not to Come.” The group seemed to choose their songs carefully, giving each a unique sound and message. That was the case when they released “Out in the Country” in 1970. The song made a perfect anthem for a new celebration that would begin that year: Earth Day.

“Before the breathing air is gone

Before the sun

is just a bright spot in the nighttime

Out where the rivers like to run

I stand alone

and take back something worth remembering…”

Long after they’d faded from the music scene, I purchased Three Dog Night’s greatest hit collection. That’s when “Out in the Country” got lodged in my brain. But it wasn’t until I stood at the top of Black Bear Mountain, seeing all the way back to my younger me cradled in the crotch of a tree, that I was able to find my something worth remembering.

I didn’t want to leave that Adirondack hike. But there was a job waiting and a family that needed me. Tom and I talked about the tug-of-war between obligations and nature’s healing. There will be other mountains, he assured me.

He was right, of course, and gradually I learned to pay attention when my inner voice suggested it was time for another day in nature. As you might have guessed, that voice belongs to Three Dog Night:

“Whenever I need to leave it all behind

or feel the need to get away

I find a quiet place

far from the human race

out in the country…”