The Disillusionment of Travel Bucket Lists

This article is part of Unpacked, a series delving into the crucial questions of responsible travel. Explore more columns on the Unpacked homepage—and make sure to subscribe to the podcast.

My father loved tales of pirates and heroes. He found a particular fascination with the coastal areas of the South, believed to be filled with both. In his stories, these buccaneers sought liberation from societal constraints. Piracy represented a path to reclaiming one's destiny. In hindsight, I see my dad was searching for a similar escape.

In February 2012, following my dad’s cancer diagnosis, my family and I embarked on a journey to the Dry Tortugas, a secluded national park in Florida, hoping to capture a sense of the adventure my father cherished. The idea of a bucket list was unfamiliar to us; our limited means meant we seldom traveled, and my dad never created one. However, had he made one, the Dry Tortugas would surely have featured prominently. We reached the Florida Keys, the gateway to the park, but he was too fatigued to go further.

After my father passed away, I became a driven perfectionist, preoccupied with the fear of time slipping away. Consequently, I crafted a bucket list. While I ticked off a few items, the experiences brought little joy. My obsession with accomplishing these trips overshadowed the actual enjoyment of them. One day, I rushed through visits to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the Getty, both premier cultural sites separated by miles of traffic, cramming what should have been a leisurely exploration into a frantic few hours. Years later, not a single artwork from that day comes to mind.

In the years since my dad passed, I've realized that the emotional weight of seeking a "perfect trip" can introduce unforeseen stress when plans falter. I've shifted to advocating for travels that broaden my perspective instead of just checking off items from "Top 10" lists. I now view these experiences as a mix of intention and serendipity. Before traveling, I ask myself: How can I craft a journey that makes me eager to rise each morning? I reflect on what I want to accomplish at a destination and the lessons I hope to gain. This introspection clarifies my motivations and guides me to honor the local communities and their resources.

To steer clear of overcrowded hotspots, I delve into local businesses and collaborate with guides to design personalized itineraries that align with my interests. I utilize public transport to minimize pollution and carbon footprint. Additionally, I leave room for what I like to call "travel magic": exploring a rain-soaked forest and stumbling upon a hidden waterfall or enjoying an unplanned swim in a secluded lagoon surrounded by mangroves. Often, this spontaneous time allows me to dive deeper into something I’ve just discovered, like Bermuda’s African Diaspora Heritage Trail, which a local shared with me at a bar in Hamilton, the capital of the island.

As I traverse various landscapes, I ponder how much pressure a location can endure before it gives way. I assess these dynamics in the moment, ready to adjust my desires to honor the space I occupy at that time.

In May 2022, I fulfilled a childhood dream by visiting the Grand Canyon. Upon entering one of the nation’s most frequented national parks, I aimed to be responsible. I opted for a locally owned hotel, utilized park service transport, and learned about the 11 Indigenous tribes historically tied to the land now included in the park. Despite this planning, I still found it necessary to alter my itinerary.

During each national park visit, I make it a point to hike a trail to commemorate my experience. As a proficient navigator and capable hiker, I was well-prepared for the challenging six-mile stretch of the South Kaibab Trail leading to Skeleton Point, famed for its views of the Colorado River. However, I had already started later than the advisable 7 a.m. and hadn't informed my safety contacts about my trail selection, nor did I have cell service to reach out.

Each year, around 250 hikers require rescue from the Grand Canyon. While I craved the satisfaction of completing a challenging hike, I didn’t want to contribute to that statistic or strain an already burdened rescue system. Where I might have pressed on in the past, I chose to step back. Instead, I stood at the South Rim and sent a prayer into the universe, hoping to return someday, healthy enough to hike responsibly.

Ultimately, I believe the essence of meaningful travel should be to return home safely, enriched with memories that nourish us in the present, foster hope for the future of that place, and encourage thoughtful consideration for future adventures.