Left or Right?

Sometimes the harder choice is the right one

I stood at a crossroads, arguing with myself.

I usually lose those kinds of arguments.

Or maybe it’s win.

One sign pointed back to where I started. The other toward Cross Knob. Left or right. Up or down.

I’d already walked four miles and was tired enough to be done for the day. I had at least one more to go, and Cross Knob would only add more distance, but it was my choice.

I’d started after lunch to let the day warm up. The map said: road for a couple of miles, then a trail, then another road back. From what I could see ahead, the road was paved. No need for hiking boots or walking sticks. My biggest challenge would be the cold, made colder by a stiff January wind that week before the big ice storm would hit Nashville. Warm layers and steady movement would take care of that.

I set off with the confidence of a man who hadn’t begun yet. But heading up that first long hill into the wind, I got so cold that I began rethinking the hike and several life choices. Once again, I had confused enthusiasm for preparation.

Head down, I kept going. I’d warm up eventually. I crested the first hill, and to my dismay, the road ahead was dirt. I could turn back, get my boots and trekking pole, and start again.

Sensible people would do that, but I’m not always so sensible.

I kept walking.

The road ahead dropped into a valley. Open fields and rolling hills beckoned. I passed a lake, entered the woods, and finally escaped the wind. But with the trees came enough leaves to cover the road. They were slipping and sliding enough to keep me alert.

Wishing I’d worn my boots, I pushed on in my running shoes. In the low places, the dirt turned to mud. Four-wheelers had churned it up, their tracks frozen in time, daring me to cross gracefully. I didn’t always succeed.

The road ended, and the track narrowed into a trail. The hills grew steeper. The leaves thicker. The mud muddier. For two more slow miles, I kept rehearsing my regrets about not wearing boots.

Then the trail crossed a small waterfall and ended at a pair of signs.

Left or right? Up to Cross Knob, or back down to where I started?

You know me. Of course, I wanted some pictures from the top. But the hike had already been harder than I’d expected. I was tired. Cold. And tired of being cold. I just wanted to get back down to where I could warm up. So, I decided not to go.

Still, I didn’t move. I stood there, debating with myself, looking back and forth between the signs.

I started thinking about regret.

Regret comes in two forms. One kind is regret over what we did or said. We’re sorry, but we can’t undo it. This kind often mixes with disappointment, shame, and remorse.

The other kind comes from doing nothing at all. We regret what we didn’t do. In that moment of decision, we lacked the requisite courage, vision, energy, or time. It’s Robert Frost’s idea of the road not taken, and wondering what difference it might have made.

Regrets for what I did were the norm when I was younger. But somewhere along the way, that shifted. These days, I far more often regret what I don’t do than what I do. My regrets come from hesitation. From letting excuses talk me out of even trying.

Standing there, I checked the map. A third of a mile. Two hundred feet of climbing.

I could do that.

I was running out of excuses.

More importantly, I knew I’d regret not going if I didn’t.

No more regrets.

The trail wasn’t steep at first, but I knew better. A big hill was waiting. I found it a quarter of a mile later. I stood at the edge of the Knob, looking up, rethinking this idea. I wasn’t sure I could answer all the questions that hill was asking.

The trail was just a worn place on a steep hillside. What was I doing there anyway? I was in my seventies. I had running shoes on, not boots. I wasn’t up to this.

But no regrets. Right?

So, I started picking my way forward, driving my way up, keeping my balance by leaning so far into the hill I could almost lick the ground.

I stopped at a small flat spot near a tree to rest. I checked my Garmin. My heart rate had jumped to 5K racing levels. My lungs had filed a formal complaint with my brain. I wasn’t out of shape. I was out of oxygen.

My body voted to turn around.

I overruled it, because looking up, I could see the cross high above me. I could rest there.

There’s probably a good metaphor in that.

I gulped air and started again, pushing and dragging my way to the top, victorious in a battle with my body I don’t always win anymore.

There was the cross. And a bench.

I stumbled to the bench. I sat down and recovered my dignity and my breath. I had needed that bench. I loved that bench.

From there, I could see the Abbey of Gethsemani, where I’d begun the hike. I turned to look at the cross. It was simple and plain, once part of the old church at the Abbey. Someone had decided it belonged up here and somehow made that happen.

After pictures and recovery, I started back down, slipping once with a gentle bump and no harm done. Near the bottom, I nearly tripped over a fallen branch and my own feet - twice. Overconfidence likes to follow accomplishment. I was glad no one was watching.

The rest of the hike back was easier. The trail became a dirt road, and the time passed quickly.

I was satisfied. I’d done a hard thing. I’d climbed the knob. I’d conquered myself.

I had no regrets.

Except for that boot thing.

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Some days, we face more than we planned to give. Maybe we’re colder, slower, and missing the right gear. But even then, sometimes the best thing to do is take the next step and see what’s at the top.

What’s one climb you’ve been avoiding - not because you can’t do it, but because it’d be easier not to? I’d love to hear about the Cross Knobs you’ve faced and what finally tipped the decision.