By Kristy McCaffrey
[Author’s
Note: This essay originally appeared on the Women’s Adventure magazine website
last year. I thought I’d share it here as we kick off a new year. While the
well-trodden path can be considered a starting point, we should all have the
courage of a teenager to forge our own journey.]
On a
Sunday morning I invite my youngest child, Hannah, on a hike. The McDowell
Mountain Preserve, near our house, has many trails to meander on, but a
favorite of many is a giant granite monolith called Tom’s Thumb. It can be
accessed from two different sides, but the fastest, albeit more strenuous
route, is a two-mile uphill switchback. This will be our outing for the day. I
anticipate fresh air, great weather (it’s January in the Phoenix area and in
the high 70’s), and a nice workout, all while hanging out with my daughter.
She’s never been to Tom's Thumb, and is eager to see what others have said
about it. I’ve done this trek twice before. The second time, with my husband
and good friend Lisa, we all decided to take a bypass path, one that cuts
directly down the hillside to a boulder-filled valley, then up the opposite
slope. The trail was sparse and easily lost, we became hopelessly confused as
to the best way, and ended up clambering up and down ten-foot-high rocks with
no special gear. We desperately scrambled out of the valley in the wrong
direction in an effort to reconnect with the main trail.
I
make the mistake of sharing this story with my daughter.
After
an uneventful but very pleasant hike up, followed by a quiet lunch with views
of the Valley of the Sun to the south, and Scottsdale and Rio Verde to the
north, Hannah announces that she’s bored. She wants to take the side trail I’d
spoken of and takes off on what looks like a pathway, down a steep incline and
in the wrong direction. Hannah is athletic, curious, and daring—traits I
admire. Of all my four children, she’s the one most tied to the land and sky,
to the pull of nature. It tugs at her very soul. But at times, it blinds her to
her own good judgment.
As
her mother, it’s my job to keep her safe. I tell her no, that we’ll take the
main path back. She stands her ground, and in true teenager form immediately
hits below the belt.
“You
claim to be so adventurous, but you’re not. You’re just afraid.”
Hannah
and I have one of those mother-daughter tight-lipped control fights at the base
of Tom’s Thumb. Having endured her three older siblings, I’m hardly shocked by
the swift turn of events—adolescents thrive on sudden mood swings and aimless
discord with their parents—but I’m annoyed that she’s ruining a perfectly nice
day for me.
Hannah
sulks as I strive to find the well-trodden path back. I sense that this is a
teaching moment, and if I can keep my own frustration in check I might be able
to instill something lasting into her mind. Because I feel, deep in my bones,
that she will embark on many more intrepid pursuits in her future, bolder than
the one at hand.
“Adventure
should be pursued with a clear mind,” I say, “not recklessness. That endangers not
only yourself, but those with you. Be smarter than that.”
The
lesson isn’t taking hold. She is still brooding. So I acquiesce, and tell her we
can take the shortcut if we can find a clear starting point. Off we go.
For
a while, all is good. There is a trail, of sorts. Then it’s gone, and we’re
halfway down the hillside, too far to return to our starting point. I already
know how this will go, having done it previously with my husband and Lisa. But
then something happens that I don’t expect. Hannah takes charge, path-finding
most of the way, scrambling over boulders, not complaining over the endless
scrapes and scratches from the thorny bushes. She’s only wearing running shorts
and a t-shirt. I have long pants and a fleece pullover. I cease worrying about
her as I must concentrate fully on getting myself out of this predicament. We
hit numerous dead-ends—slabs too steep and chasms too wide to traverse. To cross requires
jumping, and I cannot jump. I’m too afraid. My daughter had been right about
that.
Hannah
finally realizes, as we’re sliding off a steep, gravelly slope, grabbing at
sharp branches and trying to avoid prickly pear and barrel cactus, that this
route was a bad idea.
At last,
the lesson takes hold. But we’re still in trouble, still searching for the
path, still spending too much time in the wrong direction and then having to
backtrack. It’s late afternoon. I know we won’t perish, but should one of us
get hurt—a twisted ankle, or worse, a broken appendage—it would be difficult to
rescue us. There are many people on the main trail, but it’s several hundred
feet above us. No one would ever hear us yelling for help. Our cell phones work
and have signals, but it would likely be well into the night before someone could
reach us. So, our goal is to keep moving horizontal to the slope, scooting on
our butt if need be, but to keep progressing toward the main trail and the
parking lot.
The
dynamics of the mother-daughter relationship changes. Hannah and I lean on each
other equally. Sometimes she leads, other times I do, the boundary of adult and
child becoming blurred. I need her as much as she needs me.
Finally,
we find the ridiculous, hardly-there path known as the shortcut and make it
back to the car. Surprisingly, our mishap has only taken us an hour past our end
time. Both Hannah and I shake our heads. It felt like five hours, trapped in
the ravine, fighting the desert with nothing but our hands, feet, and mounting
distress.
Hannah
admits she was wrong. We never should have ventured from the main path. She takes
my hand and says she’s sorry.
But my
desire to impart the lesson fades as I realize a deeper truth. There is the
main path, and then there is your path.
My daughter, with her budding independence, instinctively knows this—to seek
out her path, not the one we’re all
told to take, not the one I told her
to take. Our side-trek imparted wisdom—resilience, problem-solving, focus in
the face of anxiety—not found on the main path.
So,
in the end, Hannah and I teach each other. When leaving the trail, make good
choices. But, by all means, don’t fear leaving the trail.
Stay in touch with Kristy
