I probably wouldn’t have been so skeptical if I’d been properly dressed. I expected an uphill nature walk in the deep, dark woods, along rough-ish terrain – not a climbing-over-jagged-rock-ledges course that’s better destined for the REI-poles-and-backpack breed of hikers. Had I known this was an Outward Bound-caliber trail, or had I remembered that it rained the night before, I would have worn thicker shoes. And a pair of socks.
More than one individual has told me that I’m the most stubborn person they’ve ever met. Quitting doesn’t come easy to me. I climbed up one set of rocks, and then another.
In spite of the country-bohemian attire, it’s possible I could have gone all the way up and come back down, yelling and cursing from start to finish, without much incident. It was all about the gamble.
The now well-publicized notion of “do[ing] something that scares you every day” is a noble concept, but even nobility has its boundaries. Nobody needs to be a hero all the time. Selective heroism is more gangsta.
Prematurely turning around and gingerly scaling down those two sets of slick, mossy rocks was sketchier than propelling myself to the top of them had been. It wouldn’t have taken much for a seasoned klutz to slip and fly down the adjacent ravine that most likely wouldn’t have offered much to grab onto during the freefall toward the forest’s floor.
I’ve made it out of the woods, once again, in one piece.