When you work for a conservation communications firm where a lot of your peers have the “thrill of the hunt” running through their veins, it's easy to feel intimidated when stories about the great outdoors are told.

I'm the kind of girl who hunts for a pair of new shoes or a great bargain. Opening Day for me is the official start of Oscar season. I come armed with a whisk in one hand and a mixing bowl in the other, and my friends and I trade recipes, not secret fishing holes. Give me a Motel 6 over a sleeping bag and a pup tent any day. So, when the subject of “connecting to nature” comes up, I slink down in my seat a little. Did I hike the state park over the weekend? No. Kayak the river? No again.

Recently I got to thinking, “Do I have one solid memory of being connected to nature?” Unsure of the answer, I was surprised when three distinct, etched memories flashed through my mind—in seconds flat.

One. I am nine years old. I awake in the middle of the night and can’t sleep. My dad bundles me up, pajamas peeking out from the bottom of my coat, and takes me out into the chilly night air for a walk down the lane. There is a reverence to nature in the near silence hanging in the air. The sky is an upside-down bowl of stars; the Big Dipper its spoon. An opossum passes by mere feet away and looks me straight in the eye. And that is all I remember about that night. It is all I need to remember.

Two. I’m a Midwestern girl from Ohio, fresh out of college, blindly trekking to the Last Frontier for a year ‘abroad.’ Suddenly I'm reporting for an Alaskan newspaper covering such hard-hitting news as the spruce bark beetle infestation and various bear sightings in town. I watch a habituated moose tranquilized and returned to the wild. I experience the thrill of dog mushing and weight of halibut fishing. And a few weeks before I return to the Midwest, I go sea kayaking. A bush plane drops our group off in a remote area of the ominously named “Bear Glacier” for two days. I kayak through a maze of icebergs by day. My friend and I are apparently kayaking too close as one calves right next to us. We yelp and scream; a bit of a heated moment ensues about who is responsible for our too-close-for-comfort proximity. Sea otters float nearby; our guide captures video of a face-to-face encounter with a wolverine. We pack in at night and “de-bear” everything in sight. With bear spray close at hand, I do not sleep a wink, while outside the sounds of silence are occasionally interrupted by the distinctive popping and spitting of calving glaciers.

Three. Almost a year ago, I had the outdoor wedding of my dreams. Rick and I married at a friend's farm on a warm June afternoon. We said our vows against a backdrop of arborvitus; a vintage chandelier hung from a tree over the guest book table. We dragged an antique chest outside, its opened drawers filled with old glass medicine bottles full of flowers the bridesmaids snipped from the yard just hours before. I went into the pasture and cut grass stalks to slip on top of the raffia-wrapped cutlery sets. We capped off the night watching fireworks dance high in the night sky. For us, the outdoor venue and experience was every bit as fitting as any high-Gothic cathedral.

Today, Rick and I are buying our first home. I spend my time daydreaming of the dinner soirees in the backyard. There will be fading light and a soft breeze. I’ll grab my vintage china off the shelf, dust off old rickety chairs and a table, and then we’re going to feast under the stars.

Connections to nature come in many shapes and disguises. They may be strong or weak; constant or passing. Whether you’re hiking Denali or strolling the local urban park, they are the common weave that bind us all together. And while I’m not planning to trade in my mixing bowl for a kayak or my whisk for a shotgun, I recognize now that I cherish my connections just as much as my office mates cherish theirs.

Connections to nature come in many shapes and disguises. (Photo Credit: Lyle Daniel)

Preparing to kayak at Bear Glacier south of Seward, Alaska.

A close encounter with an opossum at night provided one of my earliest memories of connecting to nature. (Photo Credit: USFWS)