Tiny Joys in the Outdoors: A Love Letter to Lichen, Pikas, and Tarn Reflections
It’s easy to focus on the big things when we talk about nature: the alpine peaks, the canyon narrows, the biggest rapids. But some of the richest joy in wild places doesn’t arrive with grandeur. It arrives in the hush. In the flicker of a wing. In a perfect puddle of sky.
This is a love letter to the tiny things. The ones you have to slow down to see. The ones that ask nothing from you except your attention.
Here are a few of my favorites from seven places I’ve been lucky to spend time in, learn from, and carry with me.
Western Washington: The Bright Eye of a Tide Pool
On a low tide morning, crouched on barnacled rock along the Salish Sea, I once spotted a fragment of life no larger than my fingernail: a translucent anemone, half-buried in a shallow pool. Its body pulsed open in slow motion, like breath, revealing a crown of tentacles tipped in pale lavender.
It looked like a creature halfway between flower and jellyfish—fragile, rooted, alive with motion even in still water.
In a place of crashing waves and sweeping vistas, this is what I remember: something small and soft, anchored in salt and stone. A wild flicker of life that asked nothing but to be seen.
Tiny joy: a tidepool anemone, or maybe something unnamed, waiting quietly for the sea to return.
Teton Valley, Idaho: A Flash of Yellow
On a trail fringed with sage and lupine, I paused at a sunlit bend to drink water. A flurry of motion caught my eye; a mountain bluebird, bright and quick as a dropped gem.
But what stayed with me wasn’t the bluebird. It was the yellow-rumped warbler that followed it, less flashy, but full of spirit.
Its namesake patch flickered like a candle flame as it danced through the brush, busy and bold.
Tiny joy: a flash of feathers. A bird that doesn’t care if you notice it, but delights you when you do.
Northwest Montana: The Peppermint Polka Dot Fungus
Up in larch country, there’s a stretch of trail where I swear the mushrooms are putting on a pageant.
One September day, I knelt down and found Russula emetica, the aptly named “vomiting russula”, looking like a peppermint candy dropped on moss.
Bright red cap, white stem, unapologetically bold. Not edible, not flashy in size, but impossible to ignore.
It’s not a prize for foragers. It’s a prize for the observant.
Tiny joy: a not-for-eating mushroom that shows up anyway, dressed for the occasion.
Wind River Range, Wyoming: The High-Note Keeper
Above treeline, among the talus slopes and glacier-fed silence, there’s a sound that never fails to stop me.
A sharp “eep!” like a squeaky toy, flung from a pile of rocks.
It’s the call of the pika: a round-eared, potato-sized mammal that lives high in the mountains, hustling through the summer to collect wildflowers and grasses into tidy hay piles for winter.
Pikas don’t hibernate. They prepare.
They are persistence in fur. A reminder that you can be small and still shape a world.
Tiny joy: a chirp among the boulders, a shadow darting between stones. The wild’s tiniest high-elevation harvester.
The Adirondacks, New York: Tarn Reflections
In the high country above Lake Colden, the air grows still in the morning.
There’s a tarn there. Just a shallow pool tucked between slabs of anorthosite and spruce. It reflects the sky with an almost deliberate stillness, like it knows how precious it is to hold light that gently.
I’ve seen hikers rush past it. But if you stop, you’ll see stars mirrored at midday. A whole cosmos in a puddle.
Tiny joy: skywater. And the stillness that lets it shine.
Grand Canyon, Arizona: A Pebble, Polished by the River
Down at the bottom of the canyon, where the cliffs press close and the light pools gold in late afternoon, I found a single pebble on the riverbank. It was perfectly smooth, striped with red and cream, no bigger than a grape.
It had been tumbled and turned for centuries, passed through flood and drought, carved by time and current until it shone. Just a pebble. Just a fragment. But in my palm it felt like a gift; quiet, complete, and utterly unrepeatable.
In a place so vast and overwhelming, this is what I remember: a tiny piece of stone shaped by patience and movement. A reminder that the canyon doesn’t just tower, it listens, it polishes, it endures.
Tiny joy: a river-worn stone, holding the memory of water.
Southern Utah: Cryptobiotic Soil
It’s not much to look at. Just a bump, a patch, a crusty little ridge beside the trail.
But stop. This is cryptobiotic soil: a living community of cyanobacteria, moss, lichen, and more. It holds the ground together. It’s older than you. It’s building the foundation for everything else that grows.
And it dies if you step on it.
Once I noticed it, I couldn’t unsee it. The earth was alive beneath my boots.
Tiny joy: an invisible ecosystem, waiting to be protected.
Why the Tiny Things Matter
Noticing the small things makes us better companions to the world. It slows us down. It sparks curiosity. It reminds us that beauty and meaning aren't always monumental.
Tiny joys don’t require a summit. Just a soft gaze, a moment of pause, a willingness to be delighted.
They’re also good for us. Mental health research continues to show that mindful observation in nature, especially attention to small, novel, or beautiful details, can reduce stress, ease anxiety, and increase a sense of well-being and belonging.
Whether it’s a warbler, a wild mushroom, or a lichen-speckled rock, these details invite us to stay present. To connect with place. To return home changed, in ways that are quiet but lasting.