“Look up! Think about all the things you are missing!” He said. “Don’t look at the ground. Trust that your feet know where they are and that they will keep you safely on the trail.” I agreed but half-heartedly, not even half-heartedly, a quarter-heartedly. Maybe less. I didn’t know why but I was skeptical. As I left his office, I considered this advice. I was consulting him for annoying upper back pain that I couldn’t get to budge. Not even with acupuncture. Sometimes we need to consult other practitioners. We were talking about my penchant for hiking hundreds of miles every year, mostly on a trail, looking down while carrying a pack, a light pack but a pack nonetheless. He suggested my hiking posture might be the cause of the pain.

Later that day, I remembered this incident: I led the way, my kids behind me. I was yakking as I do when I have company (probably why I prefer to hike alone). We were on the North Country Trail along the Manistee River near Red Bridge. The trail was very narrow and carved into an extremely steep hill, straight up on the left and straight down on the right. Single file we walked along on the spring day. It was sunny but not very warm. I don’t remember why I stopped and turned around, but Johna and Sarah Ann were frozen in their tracks. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Johna took a few moments to answer, “Mommy, how did you miss stepping on that snake?” My eyes fell to the narrow trail between us. There was a brown snake with a flattened head puffed up like a cobra. I never heard of cobras in Michigan, but I wasn’t going to tangle with this fella. My kids were on one side; I was on the other. There was no way to walk around him. It was cold, so I wasn’t sure he would move. We were far enough away from him that we weren’t scared– for the moment. I, at least, was shaken about what COULD have happened. How on earth did I miss stepping on the snake? (It turned out the be an Eastern Hognose. Google it, and you will understand.) Eventually, he left the trail, and the three of us carried on.

We laughed, but my eyes were peeled. I forgot about the snake in time, but I don’t think I ever stopped watching the trail carefully. THAT! THAT is why I walk with my head down, I thought! That’s why I was skeptical. Later, I was telling a friend this story and made a similar exclamation. “I walk looking right in front of me, so that doesn’t happen again!” Before the words were out of my mouth, I realize that my argument didn’t make sense. I wasn’t looking and I didn’t step on the snake. In fact, I would have never known about the snake if Johna hadn’t seen it. How many times had I stepped safely over a snake or some other “danger” on the trail and not realized it? My feet knew where they were and carried me safely—just like Doc J said.

I just love this perspective of the snake encounter. The point is made beautifully. We know. Our intuition is good. Maybe trust IS the answer.