Surrounded by Nature, Captured by a Screen

Last weekend, I was doing what makes me feel most alive: hiking in the mountains.

For me, a 14-kilometre trail is not a challenge to be conquered but an experience to be lived. The fresh air, the changing light, the sound of the wind moving through the trees, the silence interrupted only by birdsong - these are the moments that reconnect me with myself.

But as I walked, I kept seeing something that I could not ignore.

Not once. Not twice. Again and again.

Parents were pushing mountain strollers along the trail. Some with toddlers too young to walk, which is perfectly understandable. But many of the children were old enough to be exploring on their own feet. Instead, they sat passively, staring at screens mounted directly in front of them.

The mountains stretched around them in all their beauty.

And they were watching cartoons.

I found myself wondering: What will these children remember?

Will they remember the smell of pine trees after the rain? The excitement of reaching a summit? The feeling of balancing on a rocky path? The sound of a rushing stream?

Or will they remember the next episode that autoplayed on a screen?

Nature offers children something that no digital device ever can: a full sensory experience. The uneven ground develops balance and coordination. The changing landscape stimulates curiosity and attention. The shared adventure creates opportunities for conversation, storytelling, problem-solving, and emotional connection.

A screen replaces all of that with passive consumption.

Research increasingly suggests that excessive screen exposure in early childhood may be associated with delays in language development, reduced attention span, difficulties with emotional regulation, poorer executive functioning, and weaker social communication skills. Young brains develop through interaction - with people, with objects, with movement, with the environment. They are not designed to learn primarily from pixels.

Of course, no parent is perfect. Every family sometimes relies on technology. This is not about guilt.

It is about missed opportunities.

As I watched those children being pushed through one of the most beautiful landscapes imaginable while their eyes remained fixed on animated characters, I could not help imagining a future consultation room.

A specialist sits across from concerned parents.

"My child struggles with attention."

"My child finds it difficult to engage socially."

"My child prefers screens to people."

The specialist asks a simple question:

"How did your family spend time together when your child was little?"

The parents smile proudly.

"Oh, we spent lots of time outdoors. We took them hiking in the mountains."

And technically, they would be right.

The child was physically present.

But were they really there?

Being in nature is not the same as experiencing nature.

A mountain cannot compete with an algorithm designed by hundreds of engineers to capture attention. A waterfall cannot flash brighter than a screen. A forest cannot autoplay the next episode.

Unless we allow children to look up.

As I passed family after family that day, I felt an urge to stop and say something. To tell those parents what they might not see. To ask them to switch off the screen, even for a while.

But would they listen?

I don't know.

What I do know is this: childhood is astonishingly short. The years when a child still wants to hold your hand on a mountain trail disappear faster than we imagine.

One day, the screen will still be there.

The mountain may be too.

But that moment - the chance to experience it together - will be gone forever.