SHARON, Conn. — As I made my way up the steep hill, I awkwardly hopped from one large, dark gray boulder to the next. Having come close to rolling an ankle twice already, my focus narrowed to securing my footing on each of the large granite stones that lay half-buried in the ground.
My hands, when not resting on my knees during a brief break, brushed against the rows of mountain laurel that surrounded the skinny path leading toward the summit. After stepping beneath the canopy nearly three miles ago, the tree branches finally opened up to a cloudless, powder blue ceiling. The familiar Connecticut sky spread its arms to the horizon in every direction as if showing off its beautiful collection of maple trees and bright green pastures.
In the middle of the clearing rested a large pile of stones that rose overhead and served as an overlook. Before scrambling to the top to take in the view as well as several gulps of water, I walked over to the weathered stone plaque that rested at the bottom. Although the edges of the inscription had long been eroded, the lettering rounded and faded as if retreating back into the rock itself, the words were still legible: “THIS MONUMENT MARKS THE HIGHEST GROUND IN CONNECTICUT / 2,351 FEET ABOVE THE SEA / BUILT A.D. 1885 / OWEN TRAVIS / MASON.”
Despite living just 15 minutes from Bear Mountain, I had never thought of ascending to the penthouse view of my home state. Even as avid a hiker as I might have been, it wasn’t until after returning from a 73-day, 15,000-plus-mile journey across the continental United States that my adventure and passion for exploration really bloomed. It took until my eventual return that I realized what a true baptism I had endured.
Now, there wasn’t a stone I wouldn’t turn, a path I wouldn’t wander down or a peak I wouldn’t summit. My eyes had been recalibrated, allowing me to see the adventure and wondrous mystery that pulsated through every speck of surrounding nature. Whether it be a hill just a few minutes away from my original stomping grounds or an isolated 14,000 foot peak learned about only through magazine clippings or interview snippets, I was eager to explore them all.
Although the souvenirs will eventually blend in with the rest of the decor and although the memories will unfortunately begin to fade in the coming years, the way the trip has changed my perspective about the world is the true gift that I have been blessed to come home with.
My wanderlust has only been emboldened with another core tennant I have come to adopt: do what you want.
While I may have spouted off against “the status quo” and the parameters of society in my earlier days, perhaps a lingering mentality from my rebellious teenage and college years, the payoff of chasing down a dream has shown me the purity in that sentiment. Throughout the entirety of my life, I have always been plagued with the anxiety of whether or not I am “doing what I am supposed to be doing.” I was constantly concerned with building a career and a nest and a fat bank account while the other half of me was screaming inside my mind to step off the ledge of certainty into the unknown chasm of risk.
Obviously, securing your plot in life, whether it be a nice nameplate or a stunning car or even just a comfortable life, are all mighty fine pursuits. Crossing items off a bucket list is certainly challenging and may take more time and hard work for some than for others. However, if you have the same burning desire to take flight and blaze a trail for yourself, don’t wait. Do it now rather than find yourself wrestling with the thought of ‘what if’ 20 years later.
Whether it be to reach the Pacific Ocean or to learn how to play the drums, do whatever you want, as much as you can.
As they have since returning to familiar territory, thoughts like these percolated through my consciousness as I prepared for the day Thursday morning. By 7:30, my bags were already loaded up into Pearl’s broken-hinged trunk and I was saying my last farewells to my bleary-eyed mom and dad. They gave me a hug and a handshake and waved from the steps of my childhood home as I pulled out of the driveway and headed back West for the last time.
I was heading toward home, a place that could be found in neither a studio apartment on main street nor an all-too-familiar small town house in the country. My home was laid in the arms of my co-pilot, my fellow explorer, my photographer, my tentmate and my love. The home I was headed toward was Taylor.
Up next: Final thoughts
(Hunter O. Lyle is a summer travel columnist for The Era with publications of his two-month trip across and around the United States appearing each Friday. To contact the author, email drifttrip2024@gmail.com)
