When Plans Change: What the Trail Taught Me

The Naturally Refreshing Journey

Connecting Mind, Body, Spirit & Soul

Helping people slow down, notice what matters most, and reconnect with themselves.

I had been looking forward to this trip for a long time. Eighteen months, actually.

Fifty years ago, right after graduating from high school, I hiked this same route in the high Cascades with four friends. I wanted to do it again. My hiking partner and I had planned five days and four nights. We'd trained, sorted out our meals, double-checked our gear, and gone over the route more times than I can count. Then a winter weather advisory came through for the high country, and we were advised not to go.

My hiking partner decided to cancel. It was the right call, and I knew it right away. Still, a part of me wanted to argue with the forecast. I'm fine with getting wet. What I didn't want was to be zipped into a tent with two people and a soaking wet standard poodle, which was not my idea of a good hike. But that wasn't really the point. I was disappointed, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. I'd put a lot of myself into that trip: the miles of training, the pack I'd fussed over, and the picture in my head of sleeping out under the stars with a good friend. All of that was suddenly gone.

I moped for a bit. I didn't want to turn it into a lesson right away, so I let myself be disappointed first.

Eventually a different question crept in: what's possible from here?

I had taken seven days off to be in Southern Oregon, and I wasn't about to go home. So I decided to pivot and go car camping instead. I still got four days completely off-grid. I drove out to the trailhead where we would have started, and later to the place where we would have finished. It wasn't the trip I'd planned, but it turned out to be a beautiful four days.

On Saturday I made it to Crater Lake. The water was so blue it hardly looked real. Then the same winter storm that had canceled our trip blew in, and Juniper and I got hailed on. I laughed about it. It

felt like the mountains were making sure I didn't miss the point.

That night, near Union Creek, a thunderstorm woke me in the car. It felt like it was right on top of us. Lightning lit up the whole sky, and the rain was so loud on the roof that I couldn't hear myself think. I lay there awake for most of the night, tired but happy, because I love a good thunderstorm. Juniper slept through every bit of it.

The next day, still a little bleary-eyed, Juniper and I took a wet walk along the Rogue River toward the gorge. It was overcast with rain coming and going, so I'd dressed in water-repellent layers and Juniper wore her little raincoat. The river was rushing along the way it does, and then we reached

the gorge, where all that water squeezes through such a narrow space. It was amazing to stand there and watch it. Nobody was waiting on us, and we weren't chasing mileage. I could stop whenever I wanted, look around, and listen. By the time we got back to the car we were both damp, and Juniper still needed a good towel-off.

This trip meant something to me because of when I'd first done it. Fifty years ago I graduated, hiked that route with four friends, and headed off to college with no idea what was coming. This fall I went to my 50-year reunion. Some of my plans have worked out the way I pictured, and plenty haven't. I think I wanted to go back to that trail to mark all of it.

Maybe the trail was reminding me of something I already know. I put so much into getting ready, and I still couldn't control the weather. Letting go of the plan, and then finding something else to do with those days, was the wiser choice, even if it wasn't the one I wanted.

I think about this a lot in my work with others. Much of what I practice through Reiki and somatic work is about noticing what's happening right now, rather than pushing on because that was the plan. Turning around isn't always giving up. Sometimes it's listening.

As October arrives, I'm wondering what I want to carry into this next season and what I might be ready to set down. The mornings are colder now. For our mile walk, I'm bundled up in lined jeans, a sweatshirt, a water-resistant vest, and ear muffs, and the Birkenstocks have officially been retired for the season. Juniper is nearly at sweater time too. The shorter days seem to invite slowing down.

If something in your life isn't going according to plan right now, you might try what I did. Give yourself a little time to be disappointed first, and then ask: what's possible from here?

You might be surprised where the next trail leads.

Until next time...

Slow down.

Notice what matters most.

And keep connecting your mind, body, spirit, and soul.

With gratitude,

Riki Marie

Naturally Refreshing