My plans for Saturday changed at the last minute, and I had to pick a new trail on short notice. I chose Canyon Ridge.
I chose it on purpose. This trail handed me my ass the first time I hiked it last year, when it was supposed to be a training hike for Guadalupe Peak — the highest peak in Texas. I never got to summit Guadalupe. A snowstorm met my hiking group the weekend we drove out there, and the mountain stayed on my bucket list. It’s still there. And if I’m going to try again, it made sense to start where I started before. Back at the trail that beat me.
I packed my pack and drove the 45 minutes to the Fort Worth Nature Center & Refuge, where the trail runs along Lake Worth. The weather could not have been more perfect — sunny, breezy, the kind of morning that makes you forget what’s coming.
I remembered fast.
Almost immediately after starting, I hit the first steep incline. Railroad ties built into the dirt make a stairway-to-heaven situation that I started regretting before I was even done with the first mile. Ha. One thing I love about this trail is that it isn’t shared with bikers — some sections are narrower than others, but every quarter mile seems to have its own incline or rocky drop. It’s 3.25 miles one way, 6.5 round trip, and it does not let up.
I hiked listening to an audiobook — Get Different: Marketing That Can’t Be Ignored by Mike Michalowicz. This is how my brain works on the trail. I’m a CPA firm owner. I think about my business. I think about taxes. I think about what’s next, what’s possible, what I want to build. The trail doesn’t turn that off — it gives it room. While I was climbing those railroad ties, I was also thinking about the rebrand I’m working on, the direction I want my firm to go, and how I plan to reinvent myself into something other than your average tax accountant or boring CPA. Hiking and building a business at the same time. That’s how my best thinking happens now.
And here’s something I learned about myself on this trail: the old me would have pushed to finish in record time. Head down, no breaks, prove something. The me on Saturday stopped. More than once. I sat. I felt the breeze. I took in the views. I’m not fixating on speed or time anymore — I’m fixating on being one with nature and listening to what God is trying to tell me. Outside the trail, the noise drowns His voice and I miss it. On the trail, I can hear Him.
I was glad I brought my hiking stick. There were more than a couple of moments where I lost my footing and the stick was the only thing between me and the dirt. I slowed from fast to moderate. I felt every muscle in my legs working through the stairs and rock transitions. I let it be hard.
By the time I reached the turnaround at the end of the trail, I had to pee. Lol. Good thing I brought my huge black poncho — I’ve figured out that if I throw that thing on, squatting anywhere is possible with a little privacy. So I peed, ate a snack, and started back.
The second wind came right when I needed it. Without it, I’d probably still be out there.
And then, somewhere on the way back, on a high point of the trail, I stopped to take in the view — and it hit me.
Here is where you must let it down. Release the hold it has on you. Here. Here we bury it. Forgive yourself. Your 12-year-old self who needs a hug, not rejection.
So I did.
What I had been holding for 38 years — what had been controlling me without me even knowing it — I left right there on that hill at God’s feet. And I let myself receive the hug that my 12-year-old self had been waiting for.
That’s a story for another day. But I’ll tell you what I felt when I started walking again: lighter. Not fixed, not finished — lighter. Like I’d been hiking with a weight in my pack I didn’t know was there.
The trail markers couldn’t come quick enough after that. That last quarter mile drags on like it’s ten. But I made it to the end, soaking wet with sweat, and sat down to rest.
That’s when I noticed the other trail.
Right in front of me — a scenic little path leading to a small island on the side of the lake. And there was a story attached to it. A “goat man” — half goat, half man — said to haunt that island for the last 50 years. Cool stories call for an investigation. So I rested a bit, got back up, and went looking for the goat man.
(I didn’t find him. Or maybe I did and we just had an understanding.)
By that point I was numb. Not even hungry. Just dirty and thirsty and somehow still moving.
So when I say Canyon Ridge was the hardest trail I’ve ever done — physically, mentally, and emotionally — I mean it. But this time it ended with a smile, not tears.
Guadalupe, I haven’t forgotten about you.
With love and trail dust,
Lupe
Runmom_6 