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I was sitting on a ridge when I realized what I feared. The path, no more than a foot wide, was exposed shale and the ridge it traversed so precariously, stuck out like a ship's prow into a deep and seemingly uninhabited valley. One step to the left or right, and down we would plunge into the valley below with the weight of our fully loaded packs hurrying our descent. The burnt colors of the Ardennes autumn were just making their subtle appearance on opposite hillsides and the scrubby bushes at our feet. Occasionally, a cold wind whipped from the northeast and found its way around our packs and through our clothing. We left our packs on as we sat on the trail eating our lunch, for if we removed them they would go tumbling down never to be seen again.
I had been secretly obsessed with this path. Some inner drive insisted that we stand here at some point during our journey in Europe. However, I did not know that this specific place existed until we popped out of the undergrowth and trees that completely enveloped the trail only moments before. As soon as the view of the valley and the simplicity of the path was revealed, I knew that this is the place I had longed for. I had expected to step onto this treacherous track in the Alps or the Skarvheimen, but not a few miles from my doorstep. Yet, there it was, just as I imagined it. And here we were, perched on the edge just I knew we had to be. And that is when I began to realize what I feared. It wasn't the trail itself or the realization that one misstep would certainly ruin the day. In fact, it had very little to do with the place at all, except being there planted the seed of a realization.
What would happen, who would I become if I had chosen a different trail? What if in my search for the day's trek I had decided on a course with constant elevation or one with fewer or more kilometers? Or worse, what if I had settled for a guidebook's recommend trail. What if we had erred on the side of caution to follow a course others had told us to take. We would never have been here. We would not be standing in that place I had imagined. I would still be visiting it in my dreams, where mist covers the view on either side only a few feet from the edges of the trail. This place only exists where we were. Similar paths no doubt can be found elsewhere, but there is nothing guaranteeing we will stand on them. This trail would become a regret, because it had never been followed. My great fear in fact was not something tangible such as an insect or an animal or a disease or a gruesome end it was, as Thoreau so elegantly put it, "when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
Those who travel regularly know the value of a good guidebook. They provide that much appreciated information such as where to find museum passes and sample the best cannoli. But, many times we fall into over reliance. We turn our brains off and blindly follow the tour presented in the pages of Lonely Planet, Trip Advisor, and Rick Steves' Europe. First, we head here, then at this time we go there, and finally at the end of the day we must end up at this place to see this thing. We foolishly believe that a perfect travel experience can only be had if another says it is perfect. It doesn't matter if it's a well worn tour or something off the beaten path. It is only good if it says so in the book. We cheat ourselves. We close doors in our own faces because we don't want to believe in the possibility that we can walk through them. We no longer turn our heads from side to side to peer around corners because someone has convinced us that it is not worth our time or what is down there is not good.
Of course, one of the great analogies for life is travel. In life as in travel, we often turn to the directives of others in order to map how we will live. I do not refer to one's world view, sense of morality, or religion (be it the belief in a higher power or the conviction that there is none). I'm talking about how we decide to use our time on this earth, the trail we choose to follow day to day. We all have things we want to do in our lives, but it seems many times we decide we want them because someone told us we must. First, you do this, then this, then you must do this, because then this has to happen, and only then can you die being fulfilled. What would our lives be if we allowed ourselves to pick and choose what we want from the standard formula and then turn down paths more suited to ourselves? What if we listened to our gut more than the directives of those around us? Would our mistakes and unsuspected tragedies seem as horrific? Would we turn to self-help books, fad diets, and approval of others so readily? Would we lay all our hopes and fulfillment in relationships? Would we rest our laurels on our children only to be shattered in the wake of their departures or their so called failures? Would we gather so much unnecessary wealth and prestige in hoarded piles around us? These things, these acts, are so often prescribed as what life is about or what will flesh it out, but is that not dependent on the life?
I believe so. Like a vast stretch of wilderness there are many trails to be taken. If we all choose to follow the same one, it becomes worn, littered, graffitied, crowded, and uninteresting. We, as individuals, are meant for different paths, stretching in all directions. There is no trail greater than the rest. It is nothing but tragic when we ignore our gut and allow ourselves to be swayed to a different path. The greatest tragedy, however, is if we attempt to drag someone else down ours.
While the great trails of the world that lead to famous mountain peaks and deep clear lakes are beautiful and inspiring, that moment sitting with our packs on that ridge was not meant for those places. It could have only happened there, in a little known valley of the Luxembourgish Ardennes. It was perfect. It was absolutely necessary. It was designed for us and no one else.
So, I did not fear being there. I feared not being there. I fear consciously abandoning my trail.
