The Last 500 Feet

Choosing Gratitude in the Hardest Moments

Five years have passed since Anna, Caroline, and I traveled to Colorado during Spring Break to hike in Eagle’s Nest Wilderness near Vail. The trip was relatively impromptu—no months of meticulous planning like my usual backpacking trips. We had canceled our family vacation to Seattle a few months prior due to the unknowns of the pandemic and had airline vouchers to use. So, in July of 2020, the girls and I packed up and went westward to spend a few days at Gore Lake.

A couple of things to consider: The trail to Gore Lake starts at 8,600 feet above sea level and climbs to 11,400 feet in just six miles—nearly a 3,000-foot elevation gain. And while Anna and I love hiking and backpacking, Caroline would tell you she doesn’t love it as much as we do.

From the start, the trail was relentlessly uphill. After ten minutes of climbing, I stopped to catch my still-acclimating Indiana breath. The girls caught up, and one of them said, “Dad, we don’t think you should lead.” Happy to follow, I told Caroline to set the pace. She did—until we took our final break, just 500 feet below

our destination. We took off our packs to rest. Though Caroline had crushed the previous ascent, she was spent.

Surveying the area, I suggested camping there and hiking to the lake as we pleased. Caroline, always thinking ahead, asked if that meant going up and down multiple times a day. When I said yes, she stood up, put on her pack, and said, “Let’s go.” She led us the rest of the way.

Proud dad moment.

The lake was magical—so perfectly picturesque it felt unreal. Only the sounds of nature surrounded us. The next morning, I woke early, made coffee, and sat watching the ants by my feet, meditating on the fog rolling over the mountaintops. Heaven on earth.

For lunch, we hiked higher above the lake and set up on a huge boulder. That’s when about two dozen mountain goats descended, one even joining us on the boulder. We watched as the young ones ran and played. It was perfect.

This morning, I texted Caroline, asking her to describe our trip in line. Here’s what she sent (and she couldn’t write just one line):

“That trip had so many eye-opening and cool moments. Every couple of miles was a new landscape. I remember thinking, wow, it’s wild how not everyone gets to explore or experience this beauty. I was in awe. The hike to Gore Lake was not a long hike but a challenging one, the elevation was continuously changing as we climbed, but during those hard parts, our conversation was filled with encouragement and laughter, which made every step worth it.

On one of the first mornings after the big hike, I remember all of us sitting on some rocks by the lake, eating our granola bars for breakfast. I couldn’t get over how completely peaceful and breathtaking that moment was. I wanted to stay in it forever.”

I knew Caroline would respond this way. She has a way of seeing the good, despite the difficulty. And maybe that’s the real lesson from our time in the mountains—not just enduring or persevering in our hardship, but the ability to recognize beauty even when the journey is difficult and exhausting.

Because that’s the choice we all face. We can focus on what is hard, uncomfortable, or frustrating, or we can open our eyes to the wonder surrounding us, the wonder of each day. When we practice seeing beauty in the small things, our love expands outward to the larger and more difficult things. That love begins to encompass more, until we are able to, as Dostoevsky wrote, “perceive the divine mystery in all things.” But you see, that kind of love doesn’t happen by accident. It must be chosen and received. Again and again, step by step—until one day, we realize it has become the way we walk through the world and see all things.

Question

Am I intentionally choosing to see the good, even when the path is difficult?

Peace,

Brandon

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