Up the Wrong Mountain

Two months ago (December), I was backpacking in the Adirondacks, in the Pharaoh Mountain Wilderness area which is a beautiful spot with lakes, ponds, and a couple of smaller mountains. I had decided to hike around Pharaoh Lake, and then around Pharaoh Mountain (not over it) to get to a camping area for that night. The Pharaoh Mountain is not super tall (around 2,500 feet), but would still add miles and elevation to my day that I decided I really did not want to endure. The whole purpose of the trip was for me to take some time in the wilderness by myself, to enjoy backpacking and camping, but not to push myself. I was going to take the easier, more direct route.

I was working my way around the lake when I came to some “blow down” on the trail. This occurs when a tree (or multiple trees) have fallen right on the trail making it difficult or impossible to continue on the trail. Usually all you have to do is work your way around the tree, find the trail on the other side, and continue on your way. On this day, it was a big tree and it was not in the best, most convenient location. I had to walk around the tree, work around another patch of trees, push through some other trees, and then try to find a way back to where I thought the trail might be. When I finally got to the other side of the fallen tree, I could not find the trail. I looked behind me, in front of me, all around, but could not find where the trail could or should have been. I have been in this kind of situation before, so did not panic. I had an idea of what direction the trail should have gone, I could still see the lake, and knew that if I continued to work my way around the lake I should eventually find the trail. This kind of incident did not even merit me taking out my compass and checking my direction. I pushed on, sure that I would find the trail and that I was going in the right direction.

            After about twenty minutes or so of picking a direction, pushing through branches, and trying to guess where the trail might be I eventually found something. It was a clear section where a path went in-between the trees, so I started to follow it. I noticed that the trail was heading up a steep section, but still saw the lake. I thought that what was most likely was that the trail, which was was going up in elevation, would soon be going back down to the lake. Nothing to worry about. It was not long until I saw a trail marker on the trail and noticed that it was a different color than the ones that I had been previously following. I wondered why the folks who made the trail decided to change the color of the markers. Maybe I had missed a junction and did not know it. Yet I assumed I was on the trail that I wanted to be on. As the trail continued to gain elevation, and as I was gasping for breath because of the extra strain (I was carrying all of my gear), it was becoming clear that I was going up the mountain that I hoped to go around.

            I had somehow gotten on a different trail, the trail that when up and over Pharaoh Mountain, the trail that I wanted to avoid. It was when I realized this that I was faced with a decision. I had not gone too far up the mountain. I could turn around, head back down and find the trail that I had intended to take. I would have maybe added a mile at most going out of the way and less than an hour of time. It would not have been a major mistake or problem and I would probably be able to get to the campsite by dark. Or, I could continue to go up the mountain, down the other side, and try to make it to the desired campsite. The only challenge would be that I would be going over a mountain, more miles, and much more elevation gain. And, I would be going over a mountain.

            In my wisdom I said, “well, I’ve made it this far, might as well keep going over..”

            At the end of the day I made it over the mountain, I pushed myself a little more than I intended to, I didn’t make it to the campsite I had intended to stay at, but found another place that worked well. I was fairly exhausted when I set up camp, but I felt that it was a good day.

            I’m glad I went over the mountain. The snow was different, heaver, deeper, and a little more magical. Even though the mountain was not remarkably high, especially for the Adirondacks, it was nice to have a moment at the summit to pause, look around, and enjoy the view. It felt good to push and challenge myself in a way that I did not originally intend. So maybe it was a good choice to continue to go over the mountain.

            On the other hand, I did not get as far as I hoped to and ending up spending the night at a different campsite. I was fairly exhausted at the end of the day and was not able to take moments of rest in other places. There were some vistas that I would have liked to pause at, but because it was getting late I did not want to risk losing the daylight. So maybe I should have turned around and enjoyed a different kind of hike.

            In the end, I don’t think there was a right or wrong choice for me. I would have been fine either way. At least this time I would have been fine. Next time (if there is a next time) there could have been some thick ice or bad weather at the higher elevation making the choice to go over a mountain dangerous. In the winter, the margin for error is much smaller and changing my decisions of what I plan to do could lead to a disaster if I slip or get lost. I’m glad I continued to go over the mountain. I’m glad I took the chance and made the best a wrong turn that I took. But sometimes it is better to just go back.

            This is where I struggle. When to go forward and when to turn back. When do we say that we tried our best, we gave our best effort and it isn’t working and we need to turn back? When, after we make a wrong turn, do we decide that meandering through a network of streets that we say we need to own that we are now too far from where we want to be and we need to go back? When do we say that the change in a lifestyle, the change in a job or vocation, the change in how we live is going to be too difficult, too demanding, and we need to go back? I know of churches that have made major changes in their worship style, in their presence in the community, in the ways that they try to be a worshipping community. They take a big risk, go a different direction, and find that it is challenging, it is demanding, and wonder if they should just go back. Businesses sometimes make major changes in effort to reach more people, be more relevant, at a major cost. If we keep doing when we have been doing, then at least we know what we will get and can anticipate and expect. We wonder if we should just go back to what is known, what is safe, what is easy.

            I am now three years into doing this wilderness thing; something that I never thought I would be doing. In that time, I have had some wonderful moments, hikes, conversations, and times of really engaging with the Divine in the wilderness. Yet I have also had moments when I have questioned and wondered and doubted about the path that I have been on. Even now, as I prepare to publish the hikes and other wilderness opportunities for the next season, I wonder if I should turn around and go back. When I think about the work, the lower income, the stress of getting people to sign up for trips, I wonder if maybe I should turn around and go back. Going back means security. Going back means doing something that know, that I am used to, and that is not still somewhat new to me. On the other hand, the views that I have had, the summit experiences have been amazing and many unexpected. I am sure that there will be plenty more if I continue with this work of engaging the divine in the wilderness.

            There is not a right or correct choice. At least this is what I tell myself. Yes, there are moments when turning around may be the right thing. I do not know what those moments are. For now, I will continue to work through this different path that I did not intend on taking. I will continue to work my way to the summit experiences that have been true blessings in the past three years and hope that they will continue and maybe even increase. The risk is real. The doubts are real. The challenges are real. And the views are amazing.

            I did not plan on going over the mountain. I did not plan on going a different, more difficult way. I think I’m glad I did.