I wrote about fear last week, and how it can hold us back from realizing so many of life’s treasures—a seemingly impossible goal, a new adventure, a deepening friendship. But I didn’t tell you a story about a time I had to overcome an instinctual fearfulness in the moment.
The Sipsey Wilderness is a pristine forest in northwest Alabama. Deep canyons formed by creeks and rivers over eons have protected this area from being developed. If I wanted to explain the color green to someone, the Sipsey would be my definition. Multiple hues of verdant plant life exist there nestled in the deep shade of the forest.
I’ve hiked and camped here before, years ago with Harvey and some friends, then later with our daughters. I hadn’t been back until a couple of years ago, solo, when I camped in a campground and made day hikes. The area has no cellular service, so using my trusty hiking app, I downloaded trails that looked promising.
The first trail was called Shangri-La, a promising name for a trail if ever there was one. The description promised a haven with a waterfall cascading into a quiet pool at its end. I was hooked. Well, the trail ended up being only a suggestion. There were no trail blazes, nothing. The hiking app tracks my location on the downloaded map, so using my cell phone as a compass of sorts, I trekked through underbrush, down slippery mud banks, and crossed a creek, finally reaching the destination. It was as heavenly as described.
The second trail I chose was Little Ugly Creek and Deer Skull Falls, not a very encouraging name for a trail. This one started with the good potential of a marked path, but quickly turned into just a hint. Using the app again, I navigated steep walls, crossed several creeks multiple times, and walked along a very narrow portion at the edge of the canyon. I kept envisioning snakes or a fall, then pushed them out of my mind, and pushed on. Never saw a deer skull, and the creek was indeed ugly. As an aside, I looked up this trail recently and read a review from someone who had to be airlifted out after sustaining a broken leg! I won’t be back.
The third hike was along Borden Creek. I chose it because it actually looked to be a real trail, with its trailhead at a substantial parking lot. A flat, well-traveled path followed the course of the creek. There was no chance of a fall, but I did come upon a snake lying across the trail, which stopped me short until I could get a better look to see that it was not of the poisonous variety. An o’possum ambled along a portion of the trail just in front of me.
It had rained recently, and there was a cornucopia of mushrooms. Several umbrella magnolias and hemlocks provided shade, and a steep rock cliff with outcrops and shallow caves was on my right.
The trail seemed to stop abruptly at a giant boulder that was right at the creek’s edge. I couldn’t go around it. I decided to try to climb over it, but that was not possible either. I was about to give up and turn back when I noticed an opening in the rock. It was pitch black, but when I bent over and walked in, I could see daylight far to my left. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom inside this opening, I could make out a passage through the boulder. Maybe this was the trail. I had to turn sideways, and still my day pack scraped the walls as I inched along toward the light at the other end.
When I emerged, I could tell immediately that this was indeed the trail, the path I was to take, for it continued on.
I must have missed a description of this scary tunnel on my hiking app because, when I told a friend about my adventure, he said, “Oh, fat man’s squeeze. That’s a really fun hike,” as if this was a well known feature. Had I known about it beforehand, I wouldn’t have had near as much fear about entering that dark passage, but I’m proud of myself for pushing down my apprehension and pushing on toward the light.
Sometimes the only way forward is through a dark fear.