By Kaci Curtis
@kcurtiswriter

Thunder murmured in the distance, but it was creeping closer. Dusk was falling; it would be too dark to see, soon. I was breathing fast, my chest tight and anxiety mounting. I couldn’t find the damn trail.

I was hiking alone in Sequoia National Park with my almost two year old son, Finn. It was September in the mountains, but he was snug and happy in my child carrier pack, munching on a bag of goldfish. Whole grain, of course. Together, we had hiked onwards and upwards, marching along the narrow dirt track through boulders and pines to the top of Buena Vista Point. It wasn’t a long trail; only one mile each way. It was our final hike for the evening before heading back down to our tent for a warm supper and toasted marshmallows.

It was beautiful. Getting a bit chilly, but quiet and peaceful. Perfect.  

I was raised in a camping family. We rarely went to crowded resorts or theme parks; instead we ventured outside together, packed a cooler, slept in a tent. We hiked in the woods, collecting jars full of snails and catching harmless snakes and frogs. And I’m more than grateful for it. When I got married and moved away from home, I aspired to raise children who loved the outdoors. Who needed it, thrived in it, and would help to protect its wild and fragile beauty.

When my son began to walk at ten months old, we lived in San Diego, CA. We were one of the thousands of military families out there, and I was struggling with my role as a stay at home mom. My husband was gone for more than half the year, every year. And I craved escape. I chased down road trips and hiking adventures in a way that only someone running from something heavy can do. I needed the big sky overhead and the trail beneath my feet, and I was lucky enough to have a good tempered baby who seemed to enjoy the outdoors as much as I did.

By the time Finn turned two, he and I had camped and hiked in at least eight National Parks. Over half of those times, my husband was gone on deployments or training trips. So I would load Finn up in the SUV, pack the favorite snacks and toys, and drive. And the next thing I knew, I’d be fighting to get our tent up by myself while Finn drove his dump truck through the dirt and tried to eat pine cones.

When we got to Sequoia that September, it was for a two day stop before venturing north to camp a few more days in Yosemite National Park. It was our third time in Sequoia, and I was very familiar with the park. When we set out that day to hike and explore, I had everything a responsible (and admittedly, anxious) mom needs. I had plenty of snacks. A change of clothes. Diapers, wipes, and plastic bags. I had extra water and bear spray. I had my small first aid kit, a flashlight, and a jacket for Finn in case the weather turned.

I was prepared for anything that Mother Nature happened to give us.

Despite all that preparation, all that experience, and all that hard won confidence … I still got lost.

The top of Buena Vista point is a granite dome, like so many others in Sequoia and Yosemite. When the trail emerged onto the dome from the scrubby brush and boulders, I didn’t even think about needing to mark its location. I had never lost a trail before. It wasn’t even something I worried about happening.

I wrangled my hiking pack down to the ground and released Finn, who began to climb across the dome like a mountain goat. I kept a close eye and guided him away from dangerous drop offs and steep sections. We wandered the whole dome, circling it and taking in the amazing view of more mountains rising along the skyline. We were alone up there, having only passed one other hiker who had been on his way down as we were going up.

Finn smiled and posed with me for several pictures with beautiful shadowy mountains at our backs. He had a diaper change on the rocks and devoured a pouch of ‘no sugar added’ applesauce. Then I began to hear the distant thunder.

Reluctantly, I bribed Finn back into the hiking pack with another snack. He whined because he still wanted to walk, but a rock dome completely devoid of tree cover is not the place to be in a thunderstorm. I knew we needed to make our way down before the storm reached us. It was a simple mile trek back to the car. Easy.

Until I couldn’t find the trail.

I headed for openings in the low scrub multiple times, sure that it was the trail leading back down the slope. And each time, it wasn’t. Each time, the narrow ‘trail’ would wind in confusing twists, until it became clear that it wasn’t going anywhere at all.

I began to panic. If I couldn’t find the trail in the fading sunset, there was no way I would find it with my one small flashlight. I hadn’t brought a raincoat or poncho. Finn would get cold up here in the wet dark, and I would be trapped with him until the sun rose in the morning.

And these were the worst kinds of fears, because they were very realistic and very possible.

My mind raced as I struggled to find the trail. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The thunder crept closer, oblivious to my panic. I was moving too fast, not taking in enough detail. It was as if my vision shrank inward from the sides. Finn had resigned himself to sitting in the pack; he wasn’t concerned at all.

But I was afraid.

I was the reason that we were up here. My inability to sit at home and wait while my husband was away had driven me to this place. If Finn got sick or injured, it would be my fault. I feared that my husband would blame me. I worried that he would say it was irresponsible for me to chase these adventures; that I didn’t try hard enough to stay home and enjoy safe playdates and carefully pruned parks.

But that was the thing about becoming a mom; especially one who spends so much time being the only available parent. Everything, absolutely everything, circled back to being my fault.

Every decision I’ve made has had consequences, from the time I decided whether to stay at home with my baby, or to go back to work. Embracing a natural labor or accepting the epidural. Breast feeding or bottle feeding. Co-sleeping or crying it out. Sugar free juice or no juice at all. French fries or kale smoothies.

When every choice is mine, then every outcome is my fault. That is terrifying. That is a heavy weight to carry on my back. And because of it, I often forget that when things go right… it is also because of me.

After twenty minutes of desperate, anxious searching, I finally found the trail. My heart nearly plummeted out of my body with relief. There were several long moments before my breathing began to slow. Before the dangerous scenarios I’d imagined happening began to feel less imminent and fade away. 

About ¼ mile away from the trailhead, the rain was still holding off. Finally recovered and calm, I stopped and let Finn out of the hiking pack. He blasted down the trail on his own two legs, finding a stick to drag behind him and sketch through the dirt. He’d never had an inkling that we’d been in any potential danger.

He’d just been out for a hike.

Darkness fell around us, but I could see our SUV parked at the trailhead. We played there along the side of the trail until the first fat raindrops began to fall. And then we raced to the SUV, where I managed to get the back hatch lifted to shelter us just as the clouds finally opened up and let it pour.

Another diaper change, another snack, and I packed away the hiking gear. Finn fell asleep moments after I buckled him into his car seat and began the drive back to our camp.

Nothing bad actually happened, and yet I think of this hike often. I think of the panic I felt when the trail had seemingly disappeared. The guilt that my choices hadn’t been right, that I had made a mistake and that Finn would suffer because of it.

Perhaps not always on such a large scale. Sometimes it’s guilt over taking time to myself to read a book while Finn plays. Or worry that the amount of TV he watches is too much. It’s feeling guilty over the fact that I didn’t give him vegetables with his lunch. Or worry that he’s not involved in enough activities. Or could he be in too many activities? Does he get enough playtime with peers? Is he doing enough puzzles and imaginary play? Drinking enough water? Going to bed early enough?

It’s maddening. It’s impossible. I’m wandering around this wild and new landscape, trying to give my best in this role that I’ve taken on. Really, I’m just trying to find the trail.

But you know what? The trail on the map is one of many possible ways down. There are bound to be more trails that haven’t been blazed yet. Climbing routes that lay undiscovered. Paths that are just waiting for the right feet to take them. If I don’t follow my heart and bring Finn out there into the big world because I fear making a mistake ... I will regret it.

I have accepted that I will have failures as a parent. And I will also get things amazingly and gloriously right, as long as I continue to put my boots on, and head out for the hike.

Words and photo by Kaci Curtis. Kaci is a bibliophile, writer, mom, military spouse, outdoor enthusiast, and Enneagram 6. She is the main caretaker of the farm where she lives with her family in Mississippi. You can find more of her writing on Facebook.