Brave the Unknown Path

Let's go and find out together...

One day, not that long ago, you find yourself in a coffee shop with a friend who recently moved to the city. It isn't the kind of coffee shop you would usually pick for yourself. It's stark and industrial and you prefer a cozier, witchier vibe — a place where that empty coat closet might transport you into a world where animals talk and the coffee always tastes like a caramel hug.

But this new place is nice enough. The lighting is charmed, and the wood tones remind you of a treehouse, and maybe you could see yourself being this more earnest kind of coffee drinker, but then the barista gives you side-eye because you order a latte. You would like to point out that at least you didn’t ask for hazelnut syrup, but you still didn’t pass the coffee-for-serious-people test. Which, by the way, no one warned you to study for.

The tables are long and communal, and at some point, a stranger asks if he can share the empty side. You say yes, because this is the kind of place where you say yes, and you’re the kind of person now who says yes, even though your old self (who is still you) would have crawled under the table rather than sit with a stranger who is absolutely not listening to you and your friend talk about books and dates and the pros and cons of keto diets. 

A pastel wedding party glides in and takes pictures and you're in every background shot with frizzy hair and a wide-throated smile, wondering if this is where the newlyweds had their first date and shared their first kiss. Did he propose at this very table? Are they about to come over and ask you to move so they can take their pictures in the spot where your butt is now plopped and where so many memories have been shared? 

You wish they would because then you would become a forever part of their love story. There’s nothing better than a love story. Except for maybe a ghost story. Or a story where the animals talk. No one invites you into their story today though, so you have to go and make your own. 

You tell your friend the name of a park where you can take a walk, but you forget that there are two parks with very similar names and you end up at the wrong one, which quickly starts to feel like the right one after you find a lovely shaded path that winds through the woods. 

There’s a nature reserve nearby, scummy wetlands vaguely reminiscent of split pea soup. The ducks paddle happily through the green algae. A heron skims over bent reeds with a prehistoric squawk. There are trees gnawed at the base, but no actual beavers nearby. None that pop up to say hello anyway.

After a while, you start to think it’s time to turn around. But you’ve always been the kind of hiker who keeps going until you reach something that feels important — a view, a monument, a pretty rock. How can you turn around in the middle of a trail knowing there could be something life-changing around the next bend? 

You ask your friend’s opinion but only end up debating what actually counts as a hike. Is it the distance? The location? The elevation? The time spent on the trail? Does it count if the trail is paved? This feels like one of those big life mysteries best left unanswered.

The story could have ended here: you turn around and the shade is cool and lovely and you retrace your steps back to the car. Instead, you say, ‘We can make this a loop if we take the next left.’ And your friend follows your lead because he trusts you.

The next thing you know you’ve stepped off the dirt path onto sizzling asphalt, out of the trees into the blazing hot sun. Sweat pours down your back. Your skin is too pale for this level of UV. But you’re already committed. You’ve gone too far to go back now. And even though you aren't prepared for this level of hiking, or walking, or aimless wandering, or fairy tale curse — you press on, belly laughing because no one thought to bring a parasol and alligators don’t live in the Pacific Northwest. 

At least, you’ve never seen one.  

Maybe it’s the heat finally getting to your brain, but you realize two things beneath the scorching September sun.

One: there was a time not so long ago when this adventure would have been impossible for you. Two: you are glad you stopped saying no to things because you were afraid and started saying yes and letting the fear travel alongside you.

Fear loses its teeth when you say, ‘Come on then, you old, cranky bastard, let’s go and find out what’s down that path together.’

What you’re trying to say, while you’re holding your hand over your eyes, blocking the white-hot sun, what you’re trying to get across to your friend between snorting laughter and apologies for not looking closer at the map and promises to buy him new shoes if his melt to the pavement — is that this is the perfect moment, and you wouldn’t have chosen any other path. 

Tomorrow another moment will probably take its place, you’ll wander down another path, but you aren’t there quite yet, and anyway, you think there might be a water fountain up ahead.

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Wander on, my friends…

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