Kensington Metropark

During the COVID lockdown, I was encouraged to attempt an activity I’ve fervently hated for my entire life: running. I laced up my decade-old Nikes and curated a Spotify playlist titled “chill run,” replacing my usual dance-pop workout songs with tracks from Frank Ocean and SZA. At the very least I wanted to enjoy the music. Then, I set off into my Metro Detroit subdivision.

 

Each house was a clone of its neighbor — with the exception of the siding and brick color, which ranged between dull neutral tones. They were meticulously placed equidistant from each other, allowing identical plots of land for residence. As I passed by each home, I felt like I was dashing through a rat maze with uniform walls and indistinguishable turns.

 

As a kid, I tried to find pleasure in the monotony by comparing it to a campground. Both have flat patches of land, tightly packed together. They each resemble a community — kind of. However, the biggest difference between the two rests in their surroundings. Campgrounds are cocooned in nature, while my subdivision is covered in cement. Once I got older, this ambitious analogy vanished, and I embraced a new outlook on my vicinity. 

 

I desperately wanted to leave it.

 

My favorite memories from my youth are rooted in the outdoors. My dad is an avid adventurist and outdoorsman, and I grew up admiring his passion for the earth. I’m grateful to have a dad who not only introduced me to outdoor activities but encouraged me to forge my own love for nature. And after I did, I started accompanying him on countless camping outings and challenging hiking treks. But to do that, we had to escape Novi’s seemingly natureless, flat topography. 

 

But although he didn’t seem to mind returning to our level home base after one of our adventures, I certainly did. Our experiences in the outdoors were some of the highlights of my life, and I was always looking forward to the next one. I felt completely at peace when I was enveloped in nature, and I constantly craved that sense of mental safety. 

 

I specifically desired this comfort in high school, when I began feeling depressed and detached. As the college search began, I fantasized about what adulthood would be like along the coast of northern California or in the rolling forested mountains of the Northeast. I wanted to completely abandon Michigan, the only home I’ve ever known. I felt like my internal struggles would disappear in an unfamiliar place that felt more like ‘me.’ Frankly, I didn’t appreciate my home state. I stubbornly felt that being from a nondescript suburban town didn’t align with who I was or what I wanted to be. It felt like a stop along the way instead of a destination. 

 

However, for the standard reasons students stay in-state, I wound up at the University of Michigan. But instead of shying away from my Midwestern roots, I fell in love with being a Michigan kid — a title I unquestionably took for granted in my adolescent years. In an overwhelming, strange new place, I cherished the comfort of connecting with fellow Michiganders over Meijer and using our hand as a state map. Additionally, I loved Ann Arbor. The tree-covered streets were a well-appreciated adjustment from my subdivision, and I was a stroll away from Nichols Arboretum — total environmental bliss. But although I adored Ann Arbor, I was less than thrilled to leave campus and return to Novi for lockdown. 

 

After a few weeks of quarantine passed, I felt further from the outdoors than I ever have before. Initially, I took up running as a workout I could do outside in order to take advantage of the anticipated spring weather. However, I knew running through my city’s repetitive scenery would eventually lead me to abandon my main form of exercise, so I decided to switch up my route. I realized I needed to connect my quarantine workout with my longing love for the outdoors. 

 

My parents picked up long-distance bike riding as their stay-at-home hobby, and their go-to trail was in Kensington Metropark — a public park only a 15 minute drive from my house. I vaguely remember Kensington from my childhood. I had been once for my dad’s office picnic and another time for a 5k for a local animal shelter. I also had used the woods during high school as a makeshift spot for my senior pictures, which all turned out unusable.

 

Despite these associations, Kensington seemed like a decent substitute for my repetitive loop through suburbia. I mapped out a five-mile out and back run along Kent Lake, Kensington’s main attraction, and accompanied my parents on their ride over to the park. Once we arrived, I promised them I’d be done in an hour and we’d meet back in the parking lot. 

 

As I drifted down the paved path, I absorbed the draping trees scattered on either side of me. Though mostly barren, the newborn buds were delicately speckled throughout the wooded landscape. I followed the winding trail up and down modest hills, much smaller than what I’m used to, but I didn’t mind. I emerged from the trees and found myself right next to the lake — which was much more expansive than I gave it credit for years ago. I floated past families fishing and observing the calm water, and eventually turned around at the nature center. I made a mental note to check out the wildlife trail next weekend. 

 

I started going to Kensington a couple of times a week. Whether it was for relaxing walks with my mom or a run by myself, I absolutely loved it. I finally discovered a place in my hometown that evokes the feeling nature always seems to bring me — reverence and tranquility. One evening after a solo run, I hunkered down on the edge of Kent Lake to watch the sunset. I laid back on the uncut grass, ignoring the itches that teased my legs. The sky was overcast and a colorful performance was unlikely, but I sat there for an hour anyway. At that moment, I didn’t wish to be on a mountain peak or a backpacking trail. I didn’t want to be anywhere else but home. And for one of the first times in quarantine, my world felt at peace. In a time where everything felt unfamiliar, I was able to seek comfort in my perpetual connection to nature — and discover an admiration for my hometown in the process. 

 

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The idea for Kensington and its fellow thirteen metroparks sparked during the darkest days of America’s Great Depression, a period of national loneliness similar to the pandemic. In the mid 1930s, southeastern Michiganders were experiencing significant loss with limited opportunities to improve their well-being. As I did in quarantine, urban planners and landscapers looked towards the outdoors for a solution. 

 

“People need to get back to nature, feel the grass underfoot, touch a tree, share a picnic and enjoy the view over the water,” said Huron-Clinton Metropolitan Authority Director David O. Laidlaw (1969-1984). 

 

Thus, the vision of a giant interconnected park-and-parkway system was proposed. The development not only hoped to provide recreational activities for Michigan residents, but also protect the open space that was rapidly being eaten up by industry. Thankfully, the plan was approved by citizens in impressive voting margins. In a time of national crisis, Michiganders believed in the power of parks. And in a similar period of hopelessness, I learned just how powerful they could be. 

 

Now, visiting Novi is different: instead of yearning to escape, I have a deep appreciation for it. I’m learning to value every corner, especially in the places I ignored before. Rather than emphasize the imperfections in my hometown, I’ve embraced its pivotal role in my upbringing — good and bad. I wouldn’t be who I am without it.