8-9-2020 THE TRAIL TEACHES YOU

 

“The trail teaches you what you need to learn.” ~Thru Hiker Aphorism

Growing up, trauma happened to me in big ways. Not little stuff. Big stuff. House burning down. Brother diagnosed with profound mental challenges. Brother almost dying in car accident and being in a coma. Mom diagnosed with cancer. The list goes on. For me BAD things, really BAD things are big. I know I can survive them. I have in the past. Little bad things though, give me trouble. Sadly my ability to handle the big stuff well has caused me to react to small stressors in unhealthy ways. It’s called “fawn response.” I try to stop bad or uncomfortable things by controlling everything around me.

It’s exhausting.

When Dad and I were on the trail, I was petrified that I had gotten us lost. It wasn’t true and frankly a little impossible. Physically, Dad was holding up great. Slow and steady over 4,000 feet of elevation with a 45 pound pack on his back.

BUT

BUT…

I was worried.

On the AT, you get into what they call the green tunnel where everything looks the same. One foot in front of the other to the next white blaze. You can sometimes miss signs and markers. I knew we had to get to Byron Reece to get to my car. Byron Reece descent is HARD. Thunder is in the distance. People are coming up the trail huffing and puffing.

My Garmin is dying and had lost satellite.

My phone is at 10% and has no signal.

Dad is starting to get tired.

More thunder.

Raindrops.

People assure us we’re going the right way.

Dad is slowing.

I’m checking my phone, my Garmin, my paper map. Asking everyone I see “Is this the Byron Reece?” Everyone assures me yes. I’m going the right way. Quarter mile to the parking lot. You’ve got it.

Fawn response activates.

Dad senses it.

“I need a break” he says.

We stop on an outcrop. My heart is racing; this whole trip will be ruined because we are going to have to scale down the Byron Reece (which is no exaggeration…it’s ACTUAL ropes over muddy rocks scaling) in a downpour.

Dad sits stubbornly on his rock. Breathes. Drinks water. Starts to tell me a story. It will be a long story. I need to move him off this rock. Down this mountain before it gets slippery. Before it gets dangerous. Before this whole trip is ruined because I somehow got us lost (I didn’t) and also overestimated his ability to do this (I didn’t) and maybe the parking lot isn’t even down there and all those people were wrong (they weren’t). Dad keeps talking, keeps handing me the water. I’m bouncing from foot to foot.

He keeps talking. He is fully comfortable on his rock. More people go past us. Dad makes me drink water.

Then he stops. Looks at me. “I am being very calculated and making myself take 10 minutes. I want to go, but I know that I need the discipline to force myself to rest.”

Dad, could you tell that almost made me cry? Could you tell?

I stopped bouncing. I sat down behind him. Thunder rumbled. More raindrops. I looked down the trail knowing it was far more than a quarter of a mile to the parking lot. Dad kept handing me the water bottle. When we were ready, we got up. It was more than ten minutes. It was purposeful.

He knew.

Right now I am looking at a school year with the 100^th anniversary of Milton High School yearbook on my shoulders—as a SECOND year advisor. I am learning multiple new systems of teaching. I don’t even know if I will have content to put into the book. I don’t know how I will teach. I don’t know what it will even look like. I should have spent the entire weekend learning InDesign, Photoshop, and watching tutorials about MS Teams, Infinite Campus, Notebook, One Note, making and remaking lesson plans.

But I didn’t.

I sat on a rock with my dad. I drank water and listened to the thunder roll in.

We walked down those slippery dangerous steps together. We got DRENCHED. So drenched in fact, that I’m airing out my car because we brought water into it with our wet clothes.

And you know what?

It made the trip perfect.

This year, we can hear the thunder, see the slippery steps, even feel the raindrops. We are tired and sore and thirsty for what is comfortable. We WANT to move. To mitigate. To plan, re-plan, plan again.

But I needed my dad to remind me to be disciplined. Take rest. Take stock of your surroundings and have faith in yourself.

I needed this weekend. The book will get made. The school year will happen. The kids will learn.

My dad is a teacher and he knew. The trail knew.

Now I know.