There are places that we encounter when traveling that affect us deeply. I’ve written before about how overcome with emotion I was when I entered Sacre Coeur in Paris during a choir rehearsal. I remember the Rocky-style feeling of accomplishment that I got when I completed the steep hike up Arthur’s Seat (a dormant volcano) in Edinburgh.
A couple of years ago I was lucky enough to visit Maui, Hawaii. There are so many wonderful memories of this trip that I can’t count them all. However, there is one moment of one day that haunts me still. It was a Saturday and my husband and I had chosen to drive part of the very famous road to Hana. There are dozens of famous stops along the way that travelers make. The pilgrimage of driving the road to Hana is iconic and hundreds of Maui visitors do it every day, especially on the weekends. There are maps and guidebooks galore that tell tourists at which roadside huts to eat, upon which cliffs to pause for photos and which waterfalls to hunt. I was eager to see a bamboo forest and find a hidden waterfall.
After 30 minutes of picking my way gingerly through the densely packed bamboo forest, I came to the river. It was narrower than I expected considering the constant whoosh I had been hearing. Despite the rather diminutive width, it came rushing down out of the mountains at me. The lack of sunlight in the shaded, close forest meant the rocks stayed covered in red mud all the time and were slicker than a wet bathtub. Some anonymous hiker had laid an 8-inch wide plank across the gulf between the rocky cliff where I now stood and the steeper hill one on the other side.
I assessed the situation. I studied the raging, tumbling river with its roiling, white water. I studied the narrow plank. I studied the steep incline on the other side and saw only a few footholds worn into the rock from previous hikers. There were no ropes or tree limbs to hold onto and the ground was almost completely vertical.
In truth, I wasn’t as worried about the going as I was about the returning. I believed I could cross the plank. It was the hill on the other side that concerned me. On the far side of the angry river the hill sloped steeply down to meet the board. If I successfully completed the hike and found the waterfall hidden somewhere in the woods on the other side, I would have to hike back this way. How could I possibly navigate the steep slope without sliding down the slick rock face and flying into the raging river below? The butt of my shorts was already stained with red mud from where I had made unexpected contact with the earth ten minutes earlier.
I was completely aware that this was an inopportune moment to wax philosophical. But, I thought, “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe in life one isn’t supposed to end up back where one started. Maybe the end goal isn’t to finish the journey back at the starting line.” Well, there was no denying that this time, there was only one physical path even if there were two metaphysical paths.
Did I channel my inner Simone Biles and traverse the balance beam across the raging mountain river? No. Did I scuttle up and then back down the steep incline on the far side? No.
This moment of, I’ll say it, cowardice has always stayed with me. Rather than completing my waterfall hunt, I reversed course and headed back to my car. Physically, I did return to the starting line. I let my fear get the best of me and my timidity gnaws at my memories of that day, fraying the edges. Hopefully, these feelings will keep me from ending up back where I started in the spiritual sense. Please River God (if there is such a thing), make me brave next time.
Do you have a travel experience (good or bad) that still gnaws at you? Let’s have group therapy together. Share your moment of triumph or instant of hesitation here.
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