Innate Biophilia - A Brief & Wondrous Life Of Little Leo

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. 

- Henry David Thoreau

I have Thoreau's quote on a wooden plank in Max's Walden.  It's a constant reminder for the ape inside me not to live a mindless life but instead nourish the biophilia inside me which was a gift from Max. 

If biophilia can make my life beautiful then it should have the same effect on most humans. It is sad that they don't have much patience to immerse themselves in it and in-turn unawarely constantly sponsor to destroy it. 

This touching story of little Leo is another reminder of the wonder of biophilia. 

When Leo Babler was born with a rare and deadly genetic disorder, his parents reshaped their lives, moving to the mountains, building out an adventure van, and making sure their son experienced the most beautiful wild places in the country during the time they had.

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In early October, we went on our first family trip to Rocky Mountain National Park, leaving the dogs at home. We felt like we were in a postcard, looking out at enormous peaks from grassy meadows and pine forests under a bright blue sky. Even though we had purchased the best off-road stroller we could afford, our options for accessible trails were limited, so we stuck to easier lakeside paths. When we were halfway around Bear Lake—one of the most popular nature trails in the park, providing mirror-clear reflections of the surrounding summits in cobalt-blue water—Leo started to cry. This was uncharacteristic: he had never been fussy. We were in one of the most beautiful places in the country with our son who loves nature, and he was upset. Maybe he was hungry or tired?

Ryan took his time driving us to the main exit of the park, toward an extension trail system around Lily Lake. I sat in the back next to Leo, comforting him with a favorite stuffed animal and a quick meal through his feeding tube. I balanced the large syringe in one hand and ran my fingers through his soft brown hair with the other.

At Lily Lake, we stepped out of the car into a gravel parking lot, the sun softly shining through puffy clouds. Leo, relaxed and full, seemed ready to hit the trail, which wrapped around the turquoise lake with huge views of Mount Meeker and Longs Peak. Again, however, about halfway around the lake he started to cry.

Instead of hightailing it back to the car, Ryan unclipped Leo’s restraints, pulled him out of the stroller seat, and held him. Leo stopped crying immediately, and we continued our stroll. Barefoot and wearing jean shorts designed to fit a three-month-old, a Where the Wild Things Are onesie, and tiny tortoise-frame sunglasses, Leo lit up in his father’s arms. Ryan cradled him facing outward, so he could experience the scenery as easily as we could. I followed behind with the stroller, taking in the swooning reactions of fellow tourists to Leo’s chubby cheeks and giant baby-toothed grin.

From that day forward, aside from visits to the dog park, we were done using Leo’s stroller. Over the next two and a half years, we carried him along more than 1,000 miles of trails all over Colorado.