In mid-September, I found myself climbing a lonely path in misty woods on the Appalachian Trail. It was so peaceful and mysteriously foggy that I felt as if I had been transported into a scene from JRR Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" and half expected to run into a mischievous dwarf or two.
As I huffed and puffed upwards for three hours on this Virginia section of the A.T., I thought of the thousands who had blazed this trail before me--going much faster. Every once in a while, my daughter and I would cross paths with a seasoned hiker who would share a snippet of their journey. And with each conversation, my respect for those who spent months on the A.T. increased exponentially. I learned about elevation maps, trail food (think cold, instant mashed potatoes and canned meet), primitive shelters with rats, and hostels where owners, like Yeehaw, kindly washed clothes and cooked breakfast for the hikers.
As we trekked upward with a canopy of trees protecting us from the steady rain, the path became increasingly more challenging. Then, when we were about 12 minutes away from reaching our destination, Dragon's Tooth, a flash of lightening and crashing thunder threatened to curtail our plans.
Not one to quit, I plopped down on a mossy, wet boulder and took my pulse rate to make sure I was ok to continue. A descending hiker informed us that the last stretch included a slippery, vertical climb, with rebar supports, and it was exposed to the elements. No! We were so close! I didn't want to hear that!
What I wanted to do and what I knew I should do were two different things. A physical setback a few years earlier helped me realize that I should celebrate what I can do instead of mourning over what I can't. My daughter reminded me of this, although I knew she wanted to finish.
In the end, we turned around. On our way back to the parking lot, the storm intensified, and we found ourselves walking through streams of water that were not there on the way up. Suddenly, I was grateful to be going down instead of continuing up in what could have become a potentially dangerous situation. Thankfully, the next day we were able to enjoy spectacular views on another section of the A.T. in Shenandoah National Park and reach our destination.
In retrospect, there will always be storms in life. Some doors will be shut. Other doors will be open. It reminds me of the Serenity Prayer often attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi:
"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
(Please see our original design Appalachian Trail merch at this link.)
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Photo on AT by Heidy B. Weaver