The Long Hike
I was getting worn out. And I still had at least another mile before I’d reach the big waterfall. The trail had been longer and more difficult than I expected when I set out earlier in the day.
Let me back up a bit.
Expectations
I had woken up that morning drained, emotionally and physically, after a long week at work. I didn’t feel like moving, but I got up anyway. My mood was low, and the smallest things were irritating me. Finally, I decided to get out of the house and go hiking. A little exercise and some fresh air. That’s what I needed. I threw a few things in my backpack and hopped in the car. But where to go?
There’s a park nearby with a series of waterfalls, each one a bit grander than the last. The trails range from short and easy to long and rugged. I decided to conquer the most difficult one. That’d be something to talk about later. The great explorer, battling the elements to complete his quest. Off I went.
I started at the top of the mountain, planning to hike down to the falls. It was longer that way, but I was feeling a bit cocky.
Now back to the moment, two hours later.
I was sweaty, swatting at bugs that never seemed to stop biting. My ankle throbbed from a few careless steps. What was meant to lift my spirits had left me more agitated than before. I stopped and sat on a rock to regroup.
Change in Perspective
I was more than halfway down. At some point, I’d have to turn around. The climb back to the top would be steep. Should I go back now? The thought made me cringe. I wasn’t in as good a shape as I had imagined. Still, I was too close to the falls to turn around. I decided to press on.
As I sat there on the rock, something shifted. I started to notice things I hadn’t seen before. The breeze gently moved the leaves in a calming rhythm. Somewhere nearby, a small animal rustled in the brush. The forest was a canvas of greens and browns, but now I saw bursts of color everywhere: reds, purples, blues, whites, yellows. Plants and flowers I had walked past without ever noticing them.
I stood and continued toward the falls. When I arrived, I soaked my aching feet in the cold water and listened to the steady roar as it cascaded down the rocks. I just watched. I just listened.
Eventually, I began the long hike back up the mountain.
I lost track of time on the return. It had to take longer than the way down, but it didn’t feel that way. I stopped often. The pauses weren’t to rest, but to really look and listen. I paid attention to this flower, this butterfly, this tree. Not the rarest or most beautiful examples that might exist somewhere else, but the ones right in front of me.
I wasn’t trying to “conquer” anything anymore. I wasn’t trying to prove anything to myself. I simply was.
The shift wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some sudden burst of enlightenment. It was more like a gradual softening. A letting go. I realized I had spent the first half of the hike fighting against the difficulty, against the discomfort. I was focused on the destination, on the story I wanted to tell later. I hadn’t been present in the hike itself.
The Power of Presence
The second half was different. I still felt the fatigue, the ache in my ankle. But I didn’t resist it. I acknowledged it, and kept moving. I wasn’t trying to escape the experience, but to fully inhabit it.
It reminded me of a lesson I learned years ago about resilience. It’s not about avoiding hardship, but about learning to navigate it. About finding a way to stay grounded, even when things are difficult. It’s about recognizing that discomfort is a part of life, and that it doesn’t have to define us.
By the time I reached the car, the sun was beginning to set. I was exhausted, but in a good way. A tired that settled deep in my bones, rather than buzzing with frustration. I hadn’t “conquered” the trail, but I had survived it. And in the process, I had rediscovered something important about myself.
I drove home slowly, the windows down, letting the cool evening air wash over me. I didn’t have a grand story to tell. There was no triumphant moment, no dramatic revelation. Just a quiet sense of peace. I hadn’t conquered the mountain. I had become a part of it, at least for a little while. And that made all the difference. And that, I realized, was more than enough.
About the Author
Rod Price has spent his career in human services, supporting mental health and addiction recovery, and teaching courses on human behavior. A lifelong seeker of meaning through music, reflection, and quiet insight, he created Quiet Frontier as a space for thoughtful conversation in a noisy world.