As the weather has warmed and the days have lengthened, I have returned to hiking sections of the nearby Appalachian Trail. This past Saturday I set out on a Virginia section in the Richard Thompson Wildlife Management Area that is just south of where I left off last fall.
I was on the trail by 8:00, planning to get in just under five miles and be back home with plenty of time to work on projects around the house. I kept a steady pace, focused on making good time and enjoying the cool spring morning.
As the trail leveled off after nearly two miles of steady uphill and my effort eased, a lone trillium at the side of the trail caught my attention. The flower’s pink petals in contrast to its dark green leaves and the brown remains of last summer’s leafy-canopy lying on the forest floor required that I stop and look. It interrupted the thoughts that were on my mind and foreshadowed something I did not see coming.
I learned last year that trilliums are spring ephemerals. They arrive early, before the trees fully leaf out, present themselves to the insects that are also out early, and then disappear among other forest floor growth until next spring. A trillium can take up to seven years to go from seed to flowering plant, and one stepped on may take a decade to recover, if it recovers at all. All of that is interesting. But it was simply the flower’s beauty that gave me pause.
I continued on and reached my turnaround point, Manassas Gap Shelter, a few minutes later and stopped for a short break. I checked my watch, looked at the map, and decided I had time to add two more miles before heading back.
I headed uphill. Before long I found myself standing among tall poplars and oaks, listening to warblers, tanagers, and woodpeckers, mesmerized by the trilliums and mayapples that spread across the forest floor on both sides of the trail. My pace slowed and for the next hour I was consumed by the beauty of what lay before me. I was deep in the moment and had the clarity to recognize that there was nothing else except this — and that this moment would never come again.
As I descended back to my car, I reflected on the morning. I had miles to tick off and chores waiting at home. I had set out to get somewhere, check something off, move forward. It was the arrival fallacy at play. We spend our lives striving for the next thing, convinced that satisfaction lives just around the next corner. But it does not. It lives here, in this moment, if we are paying attention.
Hiking has long been a favorite activity. I enjoy the physical challenge. I like seeing new places and being rewarded with a good view. I like ticking off the miles and counting the peaks. Yet when I consider why I keep coming back, it is moments like this one. Whether it is a solo hike where nature reveals its beauty or a hike with others where we connect in ways that feel unplanned and sacred, the trail is always a chance to find a thin place. A place where the commonplace is as close to the transcendent as it can be. A place where we realize that this moment is all there is. And I found one last Saturday, among the trilliums, on a ridge in Virginia. I was not looking for it. I was looking for miles.
6684ft 