Saturday, May 16, 2020. I finally got to hit the trail again today. It has been nearly two months since I was able to hike last – March 21, to be exact. I know, right? How could I wait that long? What would keep a true hiker away from the trails so long? A global pandemic that required self-isolating with mandatory trail closures across the nation? Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.  

Yet, here we are.  

I remember some time earlier this winter, maybe in February, when my students would show me funny GIFs or memes about this crazy virus called the Corona virus, and it seemed so far off that it was unreal. A strange tale that had Italian people singing out of their windows captured our imaginations for about three or four minutes, and then we went about our lives as usual.  

Our last day of school in South Carolina was Friday, March 13, and I wasn’t even at school that day. I was on duty, though, chaperoning a massive JROTC march around Cowpens National Battlefield to honor the soldiers who participated in the Bataan Death March during WWII. Perfect Friday for someone like me who loves to hike, and we made almost 15 miles that day. I had plans that next week to take my students on a field trip to Carl Sandburg’s house. St. Patrick’s Day was coming up, and I had already picked out my green outfit. Plus, we had baseball games planned; my son’s varsity team was supposed to play Hillcrest that week. 

Then, as we pull into our church parking lot for our Sunday evening services, we listen to our governor’s emergency press conference on the radio. He doesn’t allow us back in school the next day. He closes schools through spring break. People are left stunned and full of questions.  

Just like that. Or as everyone says, “in the blink of an eye,” our whole world changed. What was normal, expected, traditional evaporated.  

As a popular meme would say, “Plot twist!”.  

None of this is news to anyone. People all over America experienced something similar. In fact, during that first week, the change seemed to occur gradually. Teachers went to school for a few days to prepare take-home assignments. Restaurants still welcomed diners as they had the day before. And the trails were still open, so my husband and I took off to South Mountain State Park in North Carolina and got in one last hike before the big shutdown.  

I would like to say that I am grounded well enough in my faith that a plot twist doesn’t disturb me. You would think that 23 years of teaching high schoolers would have taught me exactly how to monitor and adjust, expect the unexpected, and to adapt to changing circumstances. I would like to say that, but I can’t because I like following the plan. I don’t do well in crisis situations, and I want to complete my schedule in a smooth and systematic process. I wrote about this character trait of mine in another blog here, but the essence of the situation is that I had to find some way to embrace the fact that my worn path was blocked, and I had to forge a new way through what appeared desolate territory.  

I forged that way by working on this blog and my website, by participating in an online Bible study/book talk hosted by a friend, by taking photographs for a new Instagram account called imagesfromthequarantine (please follow me to see them 😉) and by developing a regular and rigorous workout program. I found inspiration regularly by listening to podcasts such as NPR’s Hidden Brain, and then a couple of weeks ago, Shenkar Vedantam, the podcast’s host, broadcasted this commencement speech for the graduating class of 2020. The speech really is worth the six minutes it takes to listen because his point is about handling plot twists, those unexpected bends in the road, or those moments we hit a roadblock and have to create a new pathway. His message is that though we are disappointed with the loss of the worn path, the new path just might lead us to somewhere better. Who knows? Maybe this quarantine experience will direct me down a road to a grand new adventure; I just have to be open to the possibilities and not to be jarred by emotions when the initial disappointment hits. Logical and doable, right? 

Fast forward nine weeks later.  

Walking around my neighborhood every day has grown old. I am pacing my front yard just so I can be outside, and I scour my All Trails app to find my next trail now that parks are beginning to reopen. Saturday, May 16, is the day; we will get up early, ride to Table Rock State Park (because South Carolina facilities are opening a bit faster than North Carolina ones) and reunite ourselves with the beauty of a walk in the woods.  

I sang all the way down Highway 11 in blissful anticipation of my favorite activity, the one key to my mental and spiritual wellbeing. Life was returning in a small way to one I knew and recognized. 

Until I saw the masked park ranger standing at the entrance of Table Rock State Park, manning the sign that said, “Park Closed – At Capacity.” Can’t be. We didn’t drive an hour and a half only to be turned away at the gate. It has to be full for campers, not people like us who just want, no need, a walk in the woods. How can the trails be full? We pulled into the entrance area to talk to the park ranger because I was sure I could convince him to let me in because the sign was not meant for me. Couldn’t be meant for me. 

OK, full stop. Time to acknowledge my privilege. I am aware that the way I responded to this set back in my plans comes straight from my place of privilege. I fully confess that this entire scenario is occurring only because I have met the quarantine with advantages so many others have not – such as being able to work from home and still receive an uninterrupted paycheck as normal. I know that compared to the losses others have endured as a result of the Corona virus, my petty complaints and disappointments are absurd. I never want to take for granted the sacrifices some people have been forced to make as this virus runs rampant across the country. They have stories more poignant and profound than any I might tell, and I would never presume mine is anywhere equal. 

But the Lord has this way with me. The minute I think I have mastered an emotional or spiritual concept, he shows me that academic knowledge is not the same as spiritual knowledge. He sends me a little test to see if I have the strength to apply in reality what I know in my head. Here was my moment to prove that I had been listening, that I had grown spiritually enough to handle a minor disappointment without excessive emotion, and maybe if I could grow a little in spiritual maturity, then I could use that growth for the good of those who have been hit especially hard from this outbreak. 

I failed this test.  

I am a bit ashamed to say that I immediately reacted emotionally in quite dramatic fashion. I tried at first to cajole the masked Park Ranger by telling him that we were just there to hike, we could park somewhere else and walk to the trail head, that he really could let us in some other way. He wouldn’t budge. He suggested we try Oconee State Park because they didn’t have such limits on trail capacity, and it was just another 40 minutes up Highway 11. 

I rolled my eyes and flipped my phone up in the air out of haughty exasperation. Marc politely thanked the Park Ranger, and we pulled off. I started breathing heavy and fought tears. I know. Total drama queen, but don’t you understand?!?!? I had waited long enough to be back on a trail. I needed to walk in the woods. I needed spiritual peace and renewal, AND I NEEDED IT NOW.  

Marc pulled us into the Table Rock State Park welcome center because of course there was no reception in the mountains, and the welcome center had wifi. After standing in a line at proper social distance, I finally had my turn in the welcome center where I went to the bathroom and accessed All Trails. Didn’t take me but a minute to find Lee Falls Trail, about 3 miles long with a waterfall and only 30 minutes away. Bingo. Let’s go. I took off toward the parking lot, leaving Marc to follow as I explained my plan over my shoulder. And off we went, a little further up Highway 11.  

When we arrived at the trail head, we weren’t even sure it was a trail head, but there were several cars parked in a semi-circle, and according to All Trails, we were there. A farm gate sported a sign that read “road closed,” and there was a small pathway to the left, but it looked more like tractor tracks leading into a big hay field instead of my usual trail in the woods. I saw no blazes, either.  

“You sure this is the trail? This looks like someone’s private property,” Marc said as we began heading into the open field. 

“My All Trails app says this is it, but if it is someone’s property, then they can ask us to leave, I guess. But there were all those cars,” I answered. 

“I wonder if they walked back to the road, like the trail head is somewhere away from the parking,” Marc said.  

“Guess we’ll find out,” I answered as I headed forward.  

And the trail was not like any other trail Marc and I had traveled before. What started in an open field led to wooded passages in the middle of the field and then opened back up again to a bright blue sky edging over the treetops. Then, we hit the deeper woods, and we crossed at least four different creeks where we had to use our hiking sticks for balance as we tested the stones in the stream or crept across a fallen log. The further we walked, the darker the woods became, and massive green overgrowth forced us into a pathway that narrowed by the minute. I saw an open cave and had to climb over rotted logs that were almost as high as my waist. Yet, every step I took the view became more fascinating.  

We didn’t pass another human until we approached the end of the trail where the falls were. Fewer than a dozen walked the trail with us that day, but we all paused together at the end, watching in silence or with whispered pleasantries on the side of a hill where water flowed in byzantine patterns over the green and brown unkempt growth – moss and leaves and wood just criss-crossing and overlapping and intertwining.  

And not a blaze in sight. We had seemingly no direction throughout most of the walk, but somehow we found this mystical hidden garden where I was able to climb and sit and simply breathe in the unmistakable scent of life.  

The trail offered everything I wanted for my big return to hiking after sheltering at home for two months. Yet, I didn’t even know the trail existed until my original plans went awry.  

Yes, God has a way of making his academic lessons quite vivid to me in reality, and so often I sense his guidance when I walk in the woods. And he always has a way of reminding me that I don’t know all that I think I know, and when I “get too big for my britches” (as my momma and grandma would say) he knows exactly how to put me in my place, even when that place is on a pathway I had never intended to travel. And even without a blaze to reassure me that I am walking in the right direction, he somehow guides me to places of breathless beauty I just might have missed if my worn path hadn’t been blocked in the first place.