Every Step Takes You Closer

Pay attention to where you’re walking

I finally made it out to Morrell Trail this morning.

It is not far from home, and I have been wanting to hike it since moving here a few months ago. After a short drive down an unpaved back road, I pulled the truck over, grabbed my pack, tightened my boots, set my trekking poles, and made sure the cameras were ready.

The trail was already muddy from yesterday’s rain. The fog was still hanging around too. I didn’t mind.

Hiking in fog is one of my favorite things. There are two things that will make me stop in the middle of almost any trail: a small stream emerging from the ground and fog settling into a distant valley. I don’t know what it is about either one, but when I see them, I stop.

Morrell climbs steadily from the beginning. There isn’t much of a warm-up. The trail weaves in and out of the Flatwoods Horse Trail and the powerline access road, opening occasionally to some beautiful views.

Every step takes you closer to something.

About three-quarters of a mile in, the views became more frequent.

I stopped to watch the fog move across the lake valley and settle into pockets between the trees.

And somewhere in that quiet, God spoke. Not loudly. Just a simple thought:

Every step takes you closer to something.

I wrote it down.

At first, it seemed obvious. Of course every step takes you closer to something. I was standing on a mountain. Every step was taking me closer to the top.

But then I realized something else. Every step also takes you further away from something. We are always moving. And with every step, we are choosing what we are walking toward and what we are walking away from.

Sometimes we know exactly what we’re moving toward. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes all we can see is the next few feet of trail. The fog made that especially clear this morning.

Standing above the valley, I could see the patches of fog from a distance. I could see where they began and where they ended. I could watch them move through the trees.

But if I had been standing down in the valley, I wouldn’t have seen any of that. I would have only seen the fog. Sometimes I think that is what our lives feel like. God may be able to see the whole valley while all we can see is what is immediately in front of us. We keep walking anyway.

As I continued up the mountain, the weather began to change. The clouds moved closer. Eventually I was standing in one. The rain started.

I don’t mind hiking in rain. In fact, I enjoy it. The forest becomes quiet. Every footstep, every breath, every drop of rain seems louder. Everything feels muffled and close. But the conditions continued to change.

The climb has to end eventually.

The visibility dropped. The trail became slicker. And the mountain was becoming increasingly exposed to the weather. I had planned to hike ten miles that morning. I turned around less than half a mile from the top.

I didn’t finish the hike I had planned. But I did finish the hike I came to take. My goal wasn’t really the summit. My goal was to get on the trail, commune with God, and be quiet. I did that.

The mountain will still be there another day. And before I turned around, God gave me one more thought. It was something Eremos has been learning almost from the beginning:

The climb has to end eventually.

When it does, we have a choice.

We can stay where we are and allow mountain-top solitude to become isolation.

Or we can begin the climb down.

We can take what we have learned and return to everyday life renewed.

The wilderness was never meant to become our permanent address.

We go into it to pay attention.

To listen.

To notice what God is revealing.

And eventually, we walk back down the mountain carrying what we found with us.

So today, I didn’t reach the top.

But I took every step I needed to take.

And every step took me somewhere.