Cairn isn’t a person.

I was in a forest, traveling along a trail that I had mapped for a group run with friends.  We had traveled about 8 miles already, and had 5 miles left on our journey. At the end was an AT trailhead with my truck sitting in the parking area.  We were going as a group of four, on a trail that was riddled with downed limbs and showing very few markings.  And that’s when I suddenly slammed my head into a tree—I had my head down looking at the trail and just didn’t look up in time.

Trying to get myself back on my feet.

I stumbled backwards immediately, landing on the ground ass-first.  I was lucky to have had my friend Sasha right in front of me. I remember hitting the ground, but not much else until I looked up to see her sitting by my side.  Our other two friends joined us.  After a few minutes, I was ready to stand up and move on.  My head was hurting a bit, but I managed to keep a running/walking interval.

The four of us stayed together for a few more miles, they checked in with me every 1/2 mile or so.  With about 2.5 miles remaining in our run, I insisted that my friends enjoy themselves and run ahead of me.  I was going slower, walking occasionally, but felt relatively ok.  My head still hurt, but drinking water regularly helped the pain.  Besides, we all had walkie-talkies, and I knew I could call for them if I needed something urgent. 

So they went on ahead, and I walked.

and walked,

and walked.

With each set of footsteps I became increasingly frustrated with my lack of speed. The trail seemed to be going on forever.  My head was hurting more, and I needed to conserve my water—by not drinking—because I was almost out.

So I kept on walking, until the trail took a bend to the right. On my left, through the trees, I could see the sun reflecting off of a lake. The water sparkled and looked inviting, but there was no obvious trail to it. Staring off at the lake I wanted the day to be done.  I thought about walking into the underbrush and mingling with the trees. I would toss my phone and walkie-talkie into the shrubbery before finding a nice spot by the lake until I died.

With my head pounding, it seemed to be the best solution.  But before taking a step something inside me said, “Wait. Let’s think about this for a minute.” Maybe it was my survival mechanism.

I decided I needed help to choose which way to go.  I asked myself a few questions:

Have you ever been here before? In this place, making this decision?

No.

If I walked into the forest to die, would my friends be ok?

I figured they would.  It may take them some time to get back to civilization without my truck keys, but they are a resourceful bunch.  (This still didn’t satisfy whatever part of me was asking the questions.)

What would my wife want me to do?

I smiled to myself as I realized the answer—she’d want me to take the difficult road and make it home. 

So I did just that.  Turned to my right, left the lake behind, started walking, and eventually running.  I kept going until I met up with my friends, and then home.

Later, looking back at my route, I was able to pinpoint where I stopped. But there was no lake in that part of the forest.  Perhaps my mind was just seeing what it wanted to see—a place to set down and be done.

Cairn’s Corner is the intersection where a part of me wants to give up, while another part is fighting to survive—even if that means enduring more hardship.  Every person I’ve told this story to has thought it was frightening—a scary place in my mind.  But I don’t see it that way.  Instead it’s reassuring to know that I can get myself out of a difficult situation, when all that I have is myself to rely on.