Braving the Trail

Salu! It has been a looooonnnngggg time since I composed a blog post. In my defense, life has been a blur the past few months. Weddings, graduations, reunions (we were only in charge of 3 this year), camping adventures . . . and unfortunately, funerals, have occupied our time. In short, we have not been bored. I’m sure most of you could say the same.

In recent days, I have mourned the loss of a dear friend who faced her Goliath of a health challenge (Lou Gerhrig’s Disease) with courage and grace. She will be missed greatly by anyone who knew her. And though our hearts are aching, we are grateful she is no longer suffering. And we know that someday, we’ll see Deb again.

I was appreciative that shortly after her passing, I was able to spend time in the nearby mountains with family members who helped me absorb the pain in my heart. And on one of our adventures, I was taught an important lesson that has helped me regain perspective. I’m hoping to share this now for any who might also need a small boost along life’s journey.

Each year our family spends time together in the mountains, enjoying each other’s company and feeling the healing peace that is there. We usually spend some time looking for fossils. This has become a fascinating family hobby that we enjoy together. This year we decided to hike back into the famed trilobite bed that lies up a local canyon. We have made this journey before and though it is a long, hot hike in and out, we’ve always found trilobite treasures that take the sting out of the ordeal.

This year, we decided instead of walking in on the fairly easy path that lies out in the hot sun, we would take the other trail that descends through a forested mountain, thinking the shade would be an easier way to go.

My husband and I rode in on our trusty RZR to where the trail begins down the mountainside. As we waited for the others who were walking in the entire way, we did some explorations. My husband selected a path on the right side, and I chose one on the left, trying to figure out which one would be better for our grandchildren to use. I hiked in several yards, then came back to where the RZR was parked to wait for everyone else. Just a few short minutes later, the rest of our group showed up, with one exception. Our son had decided to take his three-year-old in on the lower, hot and dusty trail, figuring it would be easier for her.

My husband still hadn’t returned to the RZR. What I didn’t know at that time was that he had already descended down to the fossil bed and was waiting for everyone else to arrive. So as the rest of our bunch decided to head down, I waited by the RZR for Kennon. A few minutes later, I was very glad that I was there. My five-year-old granddaughter softly called to me, “Grandma, I need your help.”

I looked up and saw that my granddaughter was on her way to where I was, looking quite distraught. “Oh, Grandma, I couldn’t keep up.” Nearly in tears, she was in need of comfort and encouragement. I assured her that all would be well and that I would help her make that difficult journey. This granddaughter takes after me somewhat in the height challenged department and is not very tall. Her short legs couldn’t keep up with the older kids who had hurried down the trail. The adults in the lead hadn’t caught on that this young lady was missing yet, but I knew they would eventually. So, hand in hand, my tiny granddaughter and I began what proved to be an arduous climb down that mountain.

I could quickly see why my granddaughter had panicked. There was a lot of tree-fall all along that trail. At one point we ran into 4 large trees that had fallen on top of each other. We had no choice but to walk down to where the tip of the trees lay on the ground, a place where we could finally straddle the trees and climb over. I was able to lift my granddaughter up and over that set of trees, and each succeeding log or tree that blocked our path. Together we faced spider webs (we both hate spiders), ants, and places where the trail seemed to disappear as we carefully made our way down that steep mountain. When we began to see that we were nearing the ravine where the fossil bed lies, we began hollering, hoping someone would hear us. We knew that by now they were aware that two of us were missing and we wanted to let them know that we were ok. Winded, scratched, and bruised in places, but fine nevertheless.

Eventually, my husband heard us. He had come back up to search for us, figuring we were somewhere along the path. When I assured him that we were ok, but taking our time on the trail, he went to share the news with everyone else that all was well.

Not long after that, we emerged above the fossil bed, and made our way to where everyone else was waiting. It was a joyful reunion as most had been concerned about the missing five-year-old, and her diabetic grandmother. We had survived that journey together, realizing that we had needed each other to make it through.

And that is the lesson I learned that day. We were never meant to make life’s often difficult journey alone. We are blessed with family members and friends who can help us along when the path ahead seems daunting. We will all face challenges that will stretch us beyond what we think we can endure—having others at our side helps us to survive and make it through.

Myself, I tend to be the eternal two-year-old: “Do it myself!” seems to be my theme. But I am learning that there are times when it’s too difficult to do things alone. How grateful I am for those who willingly wade in after me . . . and for the times when I am given the opportunity to do so for others. And to me, that’s what life is all about.