The nature surrounding campus is living proof that Mississauga doesn’t need to be so lame
Hiking paths like the UTM Nature Trail offer glimpses into a more varied, spontaneous, and expressive society.

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One of my earliest memories of UTM was visiting the Nature Trail for the first time. It was a mild and sunny September day in 2022. I was in the Centre for Student Engagement’s LAUNCH program with about a dozen other students, and our program leader had decided to take us all out for a walk through the woods around Lislehurst.

As the purpose of LAUNCH is to help new students ease into university life, our leader used the trip to pitch the hiking trails around campus as a convenient means to unwind and exercise in between classes. I don’t remember much of what she said that day, but I distinctly remember the things that I felt—physical feelings, like the way my shoulders relaxed when I leaned against a tree, as well as the emotions, like the unmistakable sense of ease that washed over me as soon as we crossed from the asphalt of Principal’s Road to the dusty surface of a well-trodden path.

Suffice it to say, I was sold, and I knew right away that from then on I’d take any chance I got to visit the woods surrounding campus.

Over the next few weeks, I spent my breaks walking up and down the Nature Trail, soaking in the scenery and trying out every route I came across. Once I’d exhausted every path between the Credit River and Sawmill Creek, I took to probing the woods for secrets. I kept my eyes peeled for the faintest tracks and gaps between bushes, shoving my way through thickets when I could and crawling on all fours when I needed to, committing to memory every clearing, dead end, and climbable tree.

Photo provided by Aaron Calpito

It wasn’t long before I’d found a few places in the woods that were secluded yet accessible enough that I could reliably claim them at my leisure. These places became my havens throughout my next four years at UTM, along with the library basement before its pleasantly chaotic atmosphere was snuffed out by the recent cubicle renovations.

I never thought much about the time I spent in nature. I just did it because I enjoyed it. In retrospect, though, I realize it’s because the woods are the exact opposite of everything I hate about this city.

Mississauga’s anti-Mississauga

While I still haven’t grown tired of the hiking trails or UTM itself after all these years, I don’t like walking anywhere else in Mississauga—at all. Decades of car-centric urban planning have amounted to a city that often feels downright hostile to anyone who tries to explore it by foot. Oftentimes, the only greenery to be seen, if any, are plots of ankle-high grass and uniform rows of trees. Everything of interest is too far apart, there’s almost nowhere to sit, and barely any shade. Not to mention the ceaseless flow of drivers peeling off the thoroughfares who may or may not be on the lookout for pedestrians.

As one of Canada’s rapidly growing cities, there seems to be so little room for spontaneity and adventure. Even the two places in Mississauga I could rely on for their bustling unpredictable nature—the UTM Library basement and Ridgeway Plaza—have come under fire for apparently being too rowdy for people to stomach.

By contrast, the nature surrounding UTM possesses a seemingly infinite wealth of beauty and opportunity for discovery. That being said, if your idea of community is a thrum of human activity and you don’t mind driving everywhere to get your kicks, it can be easy to dismiss the trails as little more than a fun distraction from “real life,” or something that only appeals to those who prefer the company of garter snakes and mosquitoes over other people.

But, my fondness for UTM’s backyard grew out of precisely that desire for human connection. While I’m almost always alone when I go out to the woods, I’m constantly aware during my sojourns of the fact that I’m in a shared space. Aside from the fact that we wouldn’t even have hiking trails if they weren’t regularly being maintained or trampled over by passersby, sometimes when I wade into a secluded area I’ll find evidence that someone else had been there recently—fresh footprints, a fishing hook, a burnt out fire pit, a sticker advertising a school club inside a hollowed out log. One time I climbed a tree and found a plastic dinosaur nestled between its branches, placed there by some other determined climber however long ago.

While I’m pretty sure these things weren’t actually meant to be found, they always manage to instill within me a sense of belonging. They offer glimpses into individual experiences of a public space, serving as reminders of the variety of ways people spend their time in the same spots in nature and the similarity of emotions that being in nature makes us feel. At least exploring the woods around campus has caused me to feel more connected to my community than I ever felt among strangers at Square One or standing alone amid the bustle of Dixie and Dundas.

Hence, the UTM Nature Trail has become my own little means of experiencing culture in this insipid car-infested city that seems hell-bent on sterilizing every aspect of community outside the solitude of our homes.

Whatever you do, don’t be boring

A couple months ago, I convinced a friend to walk with me through the Nature Trail to Erindale Park. She told me she rarely ever goes off campus and that she had never been on most of the trails before. That made me a bit nervous, since I was really hoping the places I had come to enjoy so much would leave a good impression on her too.

Towards the end of our walk, we stopped to sit on a bench just off Culham Trail. Under other circumstances, I might’ve thought this would be a good moment to start some small talk, ask her how she was feeling, or try to come up with some game to keep us occupied. Instead, we just sat there, silently watching people and clouds roll by, content with letting the scenery do all the talking for us. It was the first time in a long time that I wanted desperately to connect with someone yet felt no compulsion to say a word. Everything just felt right.

Part of what I think made this moment possible is the nature of the park itself. Nothing was pushing us in any particular direction, there were no distractions, and nothing in sight demanded attention over anything else. We were free to enjoy ourselves at our own pace, shift our gaze to whatever happened to catch our eye, and not feel pressured to use the space in any certain way. It’s a kind of atmosphere that’s becoming increasingly rare in Mississauga, but one that nevertheless endures as proof that genuine connection with the people and environment around us doesn’t need to happen in a prescribed manner.

I recognize that not everyone might find the woods around campus to be as welcoming or accessible as I have. But to persist in our tendency, to relegate the many ways we connect with each other to their own time and place—whether by prioritizing cars over people or removing the long tables in the library—leaves our city vulnerable to becoming more lonely, more restrictive, and, worst of all, more lame.

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