As I looked over the problematic path, assessing whether I should go that way with Cindy in the adult stroller, I involuntarily chuckled out loud. “Of course we should not go this way,” was my assessment. “But of course we will,” was the thought that prompted amusement.
When we first acquired the adult stroller for Cindy I occasionally ventured onto woods roads unfit for vehicular travel. We went on the woods road that ran along the Bobolink Preserve. We went on the woods road that climbed the back of Haystack Mountain up to the tower on top. We went on the woods road that went up Beech Hill. We went on each of these woods roads only once, because once was quite enough for both the effort and nerves required.
Six years later, the string of mild autumn days and recent setbacks in coverage created a desire to get Cindy off the beaten path like the good ol’ days. Her and me against the world, gaining peace and solace in the surroundings we loved best. We entered Barbour Woods from the Lovers Lane trailhead and were soon rewarded by a woodsy scene reminiscent of a Robert Frost poem.
The woods road runs from Lovers Lane to Shepherd Road, the latter trailhead located only a few hundred yards from our house, but I intended to take the path only up to the top of Beech Hill and back down. Blocking the way to Lovers Lane for an adult stroller was a fallen stone bridge over a forest stream. The alternate aluminum bridge and beaten path back to the woods road were fine for foot traffic, but dicey for pushing an adult stroller.
After arriving at Beech Hill I decided to go on further until the brook crossing. The leaves had not reached their peak fall colors, but they were on their way. We appeared to be the only people out in these woods on this pleasant afternoon, providing the same feeling of solitude Cindy and I often experienced in the midst of a wilderness landscape. The hilly return trip also would give me a little extra exercise. We had plenty of time on our hands; why not prolong our woods outing by turning back at the brook?
Once we arrived at the brook I could see the aluminum bridge was wide enough for the stroller and the small steps on either side of the bridge would be easy to roll over as well. On the other side of the bridge loomed a choice between near insurmountable short steepness for a stroller or a sloped switchback that could tilt the stroller over. I left Cindy on the Beech Hill side of the brook to take a closer look at the options.
I ruled out the short steep route immediately, then hovered near the sloped switchback. “Yup,” I thought, “the path is sloped enough by the retaining wall to tip the stroller over if I am not careful.” Then it dawned on me that my choice between going back the way we came or risking the switchback had been predetermined before I made my assessment. I found myself chuckling out loud over this realization about myself. Of course I was going to make the risky choice regardless of what my analytical mind had to say about the matter. Just like I was going to take Cindy on a 5,000 mile walk across the country when she first experience cognitive decline.
I indeed struggled to prevent the stroller from tipping over as we went up the path along the wall, forcing me to move the stroller from the downward side rather than from behind, but I succeeded. The satisfaction gained from not having to backtrack, something no self-respecting long distance hiker likes to do, added to the contentment of our woods road journey on a spectacular fall day. In looking back I am reminded of the saying:
“Boldness has magic, genius and power.”
For years I thought that saying was attributed to Goethe. Then research suggested maybe Sir Edmund Hillary? More research in turn suggested perhaps a companion of Hillary’s. At this point I have adopted the saying as my own.
Boldness sharpens the mind, a distinction between that and foolishness. Risking the switchback sharpened my mind and nerves for the task. Risking the path again next year likely would have the same result. The real risk comes if I turned that route into a habitual outing. Over time the perceived risk would lessen, as would the sharpness of the mind. With the “magic, genius and power gone,” the boldness then transitions to foolishness. I would not have succeeded as a journeyer or a caregiver without boldness; so far I have stopped short of foolishness … usually.
Speaking of boldness, I am boldly attempting to broaden my outreach even as my caregiver journey appears permanent, all the bolder from the continuing coverage struggles I encounter along with rebuilding the subscriber base from scratch. Please assist me with this by subscribing to this website. Like and share content. Encourage at least one friend to do the same. Help me inspire other caregivers and journeyers.
Nicely said Kirk!