The first step is always the hardest.
Sure, the second step is no bowl of peaches. Maybe with a bit of sugar and heavy cream. Mmm. But if you take a second step, you’ve already taken the first, and that’s something.
Before you take the first step though? You got nothin’. Okay, so maybe you have a goal, or a picture you’ve seen or a destination in mind, but you’ve made no progress.
And you are at rest, which means one of the most basic, fundamental laws of the universe is arrayed against you.
You know the one I’m talking about: an object at rest remains at rest, unless it is acted upon by some force.
It’s not me, dude, it’s science. If you’re sitting there not doing anything, the entire universe wants you to remain there.
But it’s not just science at work. It’s also the simple fact that by setting out in a direction means that you no longer have the options of the other directions remaining. Or, if you do decide that you should have gone west, young man, instead of east, you now have further to go to get to your destination.
There is a sense of fear in any decision that is made. Fear of making the wrong decision. Fear of taking the first step and falling flat on your face. Fear of failure.
Fear of failure is called atychiphobia and it can lead to never taking that first step. Because taking that first step is hard, and you might fall flat on your face.
But, since we’re breaking out sayings, here’s another one: the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
How far might you go once you take that first step? You might stop there. You might turn around and retreat back into that place of safety. Or, you might continue on. Maybe you’ll walk a thousand miles.
A thousand miles sounds like a ridiculous number. But if you walk at the average pace of 3 miles an hour (or one league), it would take about 334 hours to walk a thousand miles. That’s 14 days.
Of course, that’s 14 days without stopping. Most people won’t walk 24/7. So if you only walk five hours a day, five days a week, that’s less than 14 weeks. Call it three months.
Indeed, a few years’ back, someone decided to recreate Forest Gump’s 15,000 mile journey across America. Robert Pope took 409 days to travel that distance. And you know how he did it?
One step at a time.
The thing is, once you take the first step? Your next step? Becomes the first step you are taking to continue on your journey. And the next step becomes the next first step, and so on. Each previous step becomes history. Each new step becomes the next first step you must take.
Stepping back (so to speak), the question becomes: why are you taking that first step in the first place? What are you trying to accomplish? Where are you trying to go? And are you only interested in the destination? Because, to raise one more famous sayings, it’s the journey, not the destination, that matters.
Poppycock.
If it is the journey that matters, and not the destination, then you are directionless. Without a goal. Without anything to strive for. Hiking to Windfall Lake is far more interesting than walking five km, climbing nearly half a kilometre into the sky to wind up in a patch of trees indistinguishable from all the other trees you have walked through.
There are some crap destinations. If it is only the journey that matters, you should be perfectly fine with that. But generally, you want more. You hike to Bergeron Falls not for the time you spend in the forest, but for the falls themselves. Yes, there are some spots along the way that are interesting in their own right, but if you hiked three quarters of the way to Bergeron Falls, then stopped and turned around, people would think you mad.
That said, I have set out to get to the top of Cowmoose Mountain four times now, and have yet to achieve the top. Twice I have set out too late on snowshoes in winter and come face to face with the falling darkness. Once I set out with one of my kids, who decided, just before we were about the begin the last climb to the top, that they had gone far enough.
Most recently, I set out to get to the top but found a vehicle already parked along the road. Because it was winter, there was no place really to park other than right behind them. I began hiking up, and thought I heard voices from Cowmoose Falls, so I went in there instead to discover a pair of Fort St. John climbers on the ice.
So it’s not *always* the destination, either. If it is only about the destination, there is no enjoyment of the small victories. The tiny moments of joy that make up the day to day. Flying to Windfall Lake feels far less sweet than struggling up the hill. Going to Cowmoose Falls instead of Cowmoose mountain? Offered its own set of rewards.
To separate one from the other is a false dichotomy. To say it is only about either is missing half the process.
There are times when I set out with no destination in mind and follow random trails to nowhere in particular. Sometimes, I find my way blocked by a cliff or a particularly nasty patch of devil’s club.
Sometimes, it seems like I am wandering aimlessly, but there is an actual destination in mind. And sometimes, I set out very deliberately, aiming for a goal.
To continue the hiking metaphor, a few year’s back I caught the boat to Crypt Lake in Waterton National Park. The trail climbs steeply up the edge of a valley, then a canyon, then through a cave to the lake itself. The lake was beautiful, but without the entirety of the trip—without the cave, without the waterfall that fell up, without the scenic mountains and cliff walls and that cute couple who I followed all the way to the lake and back down to catch the last boat of the day? It wouldn’t have been as enjoyable. The destination makes the trip worthwhile, but so, too, the trip makes the destination sweeter.
Trent is the publisher of Tumbler RidgeLines.