The morning began with perhaps the sketchiest stretch of walking of this trip. I was back on Highway 24, descending towards Colorado Springs, and it turns out that weekend looky-loos aren’t the only cause of traffic on this road. Rush hour was rough. Same deal as yesterday–narrow shoulders, fast cars, loose rock to walk on–plus warnings of falling rock from above, road construction, and the rising sun blasting me square in the face. I wouldn’t want to do it again.
It occurred to me, as I gingerly navigated the edge of the asphalt, wedged against the guard rail, that I was placing a massive amount of trust in those strangers whipping past. There was room, of course, and it would have been a dangerous move for any car to drift as close to the guard rail as I was, but nonetheless–my life was in the hands of hundreds of drivers this morning, to an even greater degree than normal. And yet, despite that, I never even considered stopping–not only because I’m stupidly stubborn, but also because I have confidence that the people around me, more often than not, are going to behave responsibly enough in this context.
Of course, this whole trip is predicated on a massive expenditure of trust. As I ducked under construction equipment, taking care to not lose my footing, I tried vainly to sort out how the ADT route-finders could place people on this road. A quick search of alternative approaches highlighted a far more direct approach, heading east from just north of Woodland Park, instead of backtracking all the way south. Why on earth would they subject walkers to Highway 24 when that was possible?
Within two hours, I had my answer. First, I passed through Manitou Springs, one of the nicest little towns I’ve visited on this walk. Equal parts adventure tourism hub, carnival, and retirement community, Manitou Springs features at least five different places where one can get a falafel, which is one of the most crucial QOL factors. Some fiend even built a mile-long staircase leading straight up a nearby peak, from which one can savor stunning views of Pike. Then, I crossed into Garden of the Gods, which is, if anything, undersold by its name. The dramatic rock formations defy my limited descriptive skills; an image search will serve you better than any feeble attempts on my part. Within minutes of arriving there, I recognized what a miscarriage of justice it would be for a walker on the ADT to come so close to this without passing through. It was another reminder that these route choices aren’t made arbitrarily, and that I need to place more trust in the professionalism and care of the designers.
It so happens that this was “Talking to Strangers week” on the Ezra Klein podcast, with consecutive episodes devoted to interviews with authors of books with that title–Malcolm Gladwell and Danielle Allen. Gladwell’s book centers on a question he has long wrestled with, wondering why humans are so bad at determining when we’re being lied to. He ultimately settles on one theory, that we “default to truth” because we are socially reliant upon our ability to trust each other. Indeed, he argues, pretty much everything good in life comes out of trust.
Meanwhile, Allen’s starting point is the foundational mandate imposed upon American children for decades now–”don’t talk to strangers.” She traces the history of this notion and its consequences, most concisely summarized as “ interracial distrust, personal and political alienation, and a profound suspicion of others.” If that sounds like a stretch, she’s done the legwork to back up her claims.
While Klein’s pairing of these interviews was serendipitous, it was also accidental, and he only took limited advantage of their proximity. Indeed, they seem to highlight a fundamental tension–we are hardwired to trust each other, we benefit most significantly when we build off of that trust, and yet we are raising new generations to actively mistrust.
The most common sentiment expressed to me on this trip is to be safe. Every conversation ends the same way: the person I’ve been chatting with exhorts me to “be careful out there.” And then, they pause for a tick, look me square in the eye, and verbally bold and underline their final message: “really, be safe.” Frank, the cattle rancher I met near Pueblo, told me how brave he thought I was, making this walk alone. Others have volunteered that they would be too fearful to do this kind of thing. Again and again, people are scared of the dangers that lurk across America.
While public perception shifted in some positive ways in 2018 (we’ll see about 2019), Americans have long viewed the country as more dangerous than it actually is. Consistently, the majority of Americans believe that there is more crime in the current year than there was in the year preceding it. What is particularly alarming, though, is the accompanying breakdown of trust in each other, and the degree to which it appears to be generationally linked. This was captured well in a Pew survey from August, in which 60% of 18-29-year-olds said “most people can’t be trusted,” and 71% indicated that “most people would try to take advantage of you if they got a chance.”
Of greater concern, I think, is the degree to which the breakdown of trust becomes a vicious cycle. In a time of growing anxiety, we seek out people who we identify as similar, moving into cities (or non-urban areas) that align with our values. This process has been coined the “big sort” by Bill Bishop. Separated from one another, rarely engaging in meaningful dialogue with people who see the world differently, we begin to ascribe the worst to their viewpoints. For some, this results in a fear of physical safety, driving a greater feeling of need for armed protection. In turn, that proliferation of weapons inspires others to experience an anxiety of their own. Gladwell asserted that police officers in the US are quicker to use force because of the greater likelihood that people they pull over are armed and dangerous.
For all of the concern that people I’ve met have felt for me as I’ve made this walk (not to mention my mom), I have never felt any real fear along the walk. I’ve never had an interaction with a person that made me feel unsafe. Every conversation that I’ve had has concluded on positive terms. Admittedly, I carry significant privilege in this realm, and a woman or person of color walking alone may well be more vulnerable. Speaking for my own experience, though, I leave this walk feeling a renewed positivity about the generosity of Americans.
There are people in this country who benefit from a distrustful, divided populace. Want to strike a blow against that cynicism? Put in the work to build trust with people who see the world differently than you do.
