Phoebe Smith: Nature has saved my life – more than once

Adventurer, author and outdoor advocate Phoebe Smith grew up near Snowdonia but never set foot on it as a child. It wasn’t until a chance experience sleeping under the stars in the Australian Outback that she realised what she’d been missing – and what others like her were missing too.

In this conversation, she speaks about growing up feeling shut out of wild places, how she found her way back to them, and why she’s made it her mission to make the outdoors feel possible – and powerful – for everyone.

I grew up in North Wales, around 20 miles from Snowdonia National Park. But I never really went there. We lived in an area the national press affectionately dubbed the “Costa del Dole,” which gives you a sense of the kind of place it was. The one constant bit of nature was the sea. I remember standing on the beach, looking out at the waves, getting lost in the sound and the changing seasons. My mum would sometimes drive us there in her little 2CV. We'd sit in the car during storms, watching the waves crash over us. Probably not the safest thing, in hindsight, but it left an impression. I loved feeling surrounded by nature’s power.

That connection to nature didn’t extend to the mountains or walking or camping – the things I’m known for now. Those came much later. Although I always knew the National Park was nearby, I didn’t feel it was for me. When no one teaches you how to navigate the outdoors safely, when schools don’t take you out to experience it, when your local Scout group doesn’t allow girls, as mine didn’t at the time, it becomes something other people do. It was a constant presence in the background, but never a part of my life.

Everything changed when I decided to go travelling. I worked in a pub for months to save up, then left. When you travel, you say yes to things you wouldn’t normally do – like a three-day hike, even if you’ve never hiked a full day before. Or kayaking, even if you’ve never held a paddle. Being in Australia, on the other side of the world, opened me up to those possibilities.

The real turning point came when someone asked if I wanted to sleep in a swag – a roll-away bushman’s bed – in the middle of the Outback. I said yes. When we arrived, the guide listed everything that could kill us – snakes, bull ants, the lot. I’d only ever camped once before, in a friend’s garden. It was terrifying. But that night under the stars was unforgettable: the light on the rocks at sunset, the wildlife at night, waking up to bird song instead of traffic. Experiencing sunrise and sunset for the first time in that way was transformative. These were simple things I’d never taken the time to appreciate. It made me wonder: if I could do this, here, with all the danger and distance – why had I never done anything like it at home?

When I returned to the UK, I had no money or time. But I craved that feeling again. That’s when I discovered wild camping. It was free. I could go out, make mistakes, and learn by doing. The more I did it, the more confident I became. Sure, I had blisters and carried a heavy pack, but those early hardships felt worth it. Waking up alone in beautiful scenery, watching wildlife up close, eating a meal in silence under the stars – it was all part of the reward.

As I got deeper into it, I started learning about land access and why wild camping is often restricted. I realised how little people know about their rights to access nature – and how few women were visible in this space. When my first book Extreme Sleeps came out in 2013, the publisher told me not to mention that I was a woman. I said, “It’s going to be obvious.” They insisted I not make a big deal of it. But the reaction online was brutal. I was trolled, sent threats, and targeted by a particular corner of the outdoor world – mostly older men – who didn’t like the idea of a woman doing it alone.

It seemed to threaten the idea that the outdoors was only for a certain kind of person – a Bear Grylls-type survivalist. I used to think that too. Growing up, I never saw female adventurers on TV. Still today, male explorers are praised for their ruggedness, while women are judged on how they look. If you’re a woman who does these things, or worse, one who ages, your achievements are often ignored in favour of your appearance.

I wish I’d started younger. The outdoors gave me confidence and a sense of freedom I didn’t know I needed. I want young girls – and boys who don’t fit that explorer stereotype – to feel that too. When I began giving talks in schools and at events, my audiences were often a 50/50 gender split. Afterwards, it was usually men who came to ask the practical questions: what sleeping bag I used, how I dealt with the cold. They didn’t feel comfortable asking those questions of survivalist men, but they felt they could ask me because I’m honest about the mistakes I’ve made.

Nature gives you a sense of, “If I can do this, I can do anything.” That’s why the legal challenge to wild camping on Dartmoor is so shocking. It’s the only place in England where wild camping is explicitly allowed. Lockdown showed us how vital green space is – especially for people without gardens. I remember what it was like not knowing where I could go, not feeling welcome in nature. Now a multimillionaire, who owns land the size of Gatwick Airport, is using his wealth to try and overturn a public right that was already established when he bought it. And he’s up against a national park with a fraction of the resources. It’s outrageous.

When I came home from travelling, I made a choice: to become a tourist in my own backyard. I didn’t have the money or time for big trips, so I started taking short, spontaneous journeys. It made me realise how beautiful the UK really is. We’re such a small island, but the variety of landscapes is extraordinary – coastlines, rivers, forests, moors, mountains. The Cairngorms can feel almost Arctic. There used to be a permanent snow patch up there, a mini glacier that never melted, even in summer. It’s likely gone now, thanks to climate change. But that shows the kind of terrain we have – heathland, wetlands, bogs, all within a few hours’ travel.

You don’t need to go far to feel like you’ve escaped. But the problem is we’ve become far more risk-averse. There’s that awful stat about how prison inmates now get more time outside than children. People are scared of letting kids explore. But risk is part of life – you can fall in the shower, walk in front of a bus. The outdoors isn’t uniquely dangerous. Yet we've turned it into something to fear, something we think we need to monetise to justify protecting. I recently visited a wet woodland – such a rare habitat. But because it’s wet and boggy, it’s seen as ‘unproductive’ land. Elsewhere, it would be drained or cleared to grow crops or timber. We’ve made nature justify its value. And now we’re seeing politicians rolling back protections to enable more building – poking fun at the plight to save wildlife. That shows a deep misunderstanding of the delicate balance we live within. Start removing pieces, and the whole system collapses.

We’re stuck in a model of growth for growth’s sake, with no end goal. That mindset is exhausting – and it’s infecting how we treat the land and ourselves.

Now I have a four-year-old. Some people are shocked at the things I let him do, but why wouldn’t I? I don’t want him glued to screens. I want him to explore, to be curious. And he is. A short walk takes forever because he wants to stop and examine everything. That’s what we’ve lost – our sense of wonder. But digital doesn’t have to be the enemy. I’ve posted locations online, and people ask, “Where is this?” They learn. Apps that identify plants or birds can enhance the experience. It’s not about going backwards – it’s about using digital tools to deepen, not replace, our connection to nature.

That’s why I started the WeTwo Foundation with my friend Dwayne Fields. We work with disadvantaged young people aged 16-19, taking them on expeditions. In November, we went to the Galápagos. For many, it was their first time abroad – some had never left their hometown. On our first full day, we took them on a volcano hike. Halfway around the rim, we made them stop. We told them to sit on the ground, separate from each other, close their eyes, and just feel where they were. Five minutes. No photos. No talking. Just listening.

At first, they laughed. But afterwards, the change in them was remarkable. One young man from North London said he realised how much of his life was filled with sirens – and how much he valued the silence. Another, from a Muslim background, said he finally understood the spiritual value of slowness and contemplation, and how it connected to his faith. Of everything we did in the Galápagos – including conservation work and incredible wildlife experiences – that five minutes came up again and again as a highlight.

That’s why I still go out solo. Not always, but often. And what led me to discover the joys of ancient pilgrim paths – trails that are deeply connected to our ancestors, who also wandered in nature to make meaning. When there’s no one to fill the silence, you’re forced to be present. I put my phone on silent or flight mode. No one will ever give you that time – you have to make it for yourself. Even if I’m tired, just going for a short walk in moonlight can reset everything. You might not want to leave the house, but within five minutes, you’ll want to stay outside.

Nature has saved my life – more than once. When life feels like too much, like everything’s racing ahead and I’m falling behind, just taking that time in nature shifts my perspective. It reminds me how small we are, and how many of our problems are temporary.

You don’t need to do everything I’ve done to get that perspective shift. Even I lose sight of it sometimes. But then I’ll take my paddleboard out on the river at sunset, watch the ducks and goslings, and feel it again. It doesn’t take much – just a few minutes. And the more you do it, the more you’ll want to. You’ll get greedy for it.

And with that comes a deeper respect. If you don’t experience nature, it’s hard to feel connected to it. Hard to feel responsible for protecting it. You can’t protect what you don’t love. The problem is, we’re not giving people the opportunity to fall in love with it.

I don’t live near Dartmoor. I don’t need that space to legally wild camp. But I’ll fight for it. Because others do need it – especially when they’re starting out. This isn’t just about access. It’s about freedom, mental health, confidence, and connection. And once you understand that, you’ll fight for it too.

Phoebe Smith’s latest book, Wayfarer, is available now – a call to arms and an invitation to explore, for anyone who’s ever felt left out of the outdoors.

This conversation took place on 3 May 2025 and has been edited and condensed for clarity and flow.

So What Now?

The ‘So What Now’ section is part of The Skylark’s mission to highlight partner organisations driving action on climate and nature. Interviewees are not affiliated with, nor do they necessarily endorse, these partners.