Gasping for breath.

Sweat stinging my eyes.

Stabbing pain exploding in my knee.

I pause to catch the fleeting air in my lungs and gather my wits. I’m surrounded by fallen trees and leafless brush. Behind me is the roar of the waterfall. Above me the impenetrable rhodendron labyrinth.

I choke in panic.

Where’s the trail!?

I swore I wouldn’t do this. I promised myself I wouldn’t wander from the trodden-path.

Am I too weak to do this?. 

I swallow a gulp of bile-flavored saliva and close my eyes.

Stay calm. 

The trail is near. It has to be.

Otherwise, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Don’t Go Off-Trail

I used to listen to common sense.

Common sense kept me safe. It kept me out of danger.

And the common sense of any hiking in Great Smoky Mountain National Park is simple: Don’t go off-trail. 

It’s not a mystery why this is sage advice.

If you’ve never looked at a map of the park, it’s enormous. Like 520,000 acres enormous.

And it’s trail system can’t begin to explore every nook and cranny of this beautiful, untamed wilderness. Getting lost is easy. But worse than that, getting hurt is incredibly easy. One bad fall could leave you stranded and alone in the wilderness with no cell signal to save you.

So.

Stay on the official trails.

Common sense.

At first, staying on the trails was easy for me. I don’t like the idea of getting lost or hurt or eaten with no one to help me.

But then I heard about Courthouse Rock. For months, I read up on it and studied the reported means of finding it.

Then, on my hiking day, I took a look at the weather. I downloaded AllTrails, an app that uses GPS to help you navigate.

And just like that, I bid farewell to common sense.

I was going.

A Mystery to Be Discovered

I don’t know when I first learned about Courthouse Rock.

But I know that when I did, I was enamored with it.

Courthouse Rock is the largest free-standing rock structure in Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Standing over 60 feet tall, it is rumored to have been a place where the Cherokee would hold court and even execute guilty criminals by hanging. Another formation, smaller and broken, stands nearby, known as The Judge.

And apparently, I learned, there was more to be found along the way. A moonshiners cave. The remains of the Quilliams homestead. And a waterfall.

Best of all, it could all be accessed in less than one-and-a-half miles from the main highway that splits the Smokies up the middle, Highway 441.

Plenty of hikers had made their way to the mighty rock formation, giving me confidence that it wasn’t outside the range of possibility for a regular dude like me.

But, those hikers always provide the same caveat, a piece of wisdom I had suddenly chosen to ignore:

Stay on the official trails. 

But why had they decided not to? What made them so much more secure than me?

Something about that moment was different for me. It wasn’t just the allure of Courthouse Rock itself that drew me.

It was the challenge. The question of skill. The probability of failure.

That morning I had set out along the Porters Creek Trail in Greenbrier, a simple 3.7 mile out-and-back again trail. There was no question in my mind that I would succeed. Sure enough, I reached its terminus where I met another friendly hiker and began exchanging stories.

With Courthouse Rock, there was no certainty of success. Every detail came laden with the question, “Can I do it?”

I desperately wanted to know.

So at lunch, I decided to go.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that it was my birthday. Maybe it was just the good weather, the winter time of year (when the brush is clear and the path easy to discern). Or maybe it was the fact that I have nearly 100 miles under my belt in the Smokies now, and I decided it was time to bite off a bigger chunk of the wild.

So I drove up 441, using clues from AllTrails and blog posts to find the trailhead. As I sped toward my quarry, my heartrate skyrocketed.

Was I being a fool?

What were the chances that I, a lowly schoolteacher and wannabe author, could climb into the naked wilderness and find such a natural treasure, all on my own? Didn’t such a thing require the assistance of a guide? Of a professional?

But I wondered something else, something much more thrilling: What if I’m good enough to guide myself?

What if I’m good enough to be the professional?

Duck

I didn’t know where the trail started.

Highway 441 climbs the Smoky Divide like a concrete vein, its shoulders marked by the occasional turnoff. It was at one of these turnoffs that the Courthouse Rock Trail began.

But I had no idea which.

With a blend of tips from blogs, maps, and AllTrails reviewers, I found a turnoff that looked like it was in the right spot. Getting out of my car, I slung my pack and waited for traffic to clear. Then I crossed the road and scrambled up the bank.

Immediately, I found myself snagged by thornbushes, their stems naked and black with winter death. Fighting loose, I stood on a flat, gently graded stretch of earth and gathered my bearings. And despite the lack of a clear path, my eyes spied a narrow stretch of flattened leaves, like autumn cobblestone, winding into the distance.

I found it. 

I couldn’t believe it. To my right, trucks and SUVs hurried up toward Newfound Gap while this unmarked, inconspicuous, completely unknown trail hid in plain sight.

So far, so good.

Then I immediately discovered what “unmaintained” means on a national park trail.

An unmaintained trail helps you appreciate the work that goes into taking care of the paths that crisscross our national and state parks. On the way toward Courthouse Rock, I had to clamber around and over dozens of fallen trees.

Yet each one was smoothed on top, evidence of a thousand butts that had slid over before me.

You’re going in the right direction!

Before long, the trail snaked uphill alongside a creek until it crossed the gurgling waters. Using my trekking pole for balance, I leapt from rock to rock until I was on the other side. The path climbed more and more, a virtual staircase.

Then it jerked sharply to the right and I found myself ducking in a tunnel of rhodendron.

Now, I’m a tall guy. At six-foot-three, I hit my head on more things than you probably do.

And on an unmaintained trail, that means I’m eating cobwebs, thorns, and fallen branches constantly.

But as I crouched, ducking my head under each and every obstacle, I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face.

I can do this! I thought.

And as I came to another sharp turn in the path, I gaped at the tiny parting in the foliage I was supposed to manuever. I simply smiled, ducked as in prayer, and continued clambering up the mountainside.

Worthy

By the time I reached level ground, my face was slick with sweat and my throat was burning with strain.

Then, as I plowed through the ever-dense thicket, I saw it.

The formation stands alone on a flat portion of the eastern slopes of Sugarland Mountain. Thanks to recent rains, its flanks were slippery with water and moss.

But an easily climbed platform allowed me to stand next to it, to lean against it and sit on a ledge. I spied a name carved into its side with a date: 1827.

And for a moment, I cried. It wasn’t a gushing sob, but an quick explosion of pride.

For as I was climbing, voices had been speaking to me. They were the voices of antagonists past, of a bully, a passive-aggressive family member, a misguided boss. In my past, all of these people had told me – or at least shown me – that I was unworthy. In their eyes, I was incapable of strength, and wit, and greatness.

They convinced me of what I have always feared, what I have always told myself long before they could: That I am unworthy.

Unworthy of respect. Unworthy of trust.

Unworthy of love.

But when I laid my hands on Courthouse Rock, gazed up at it, and leaned my tired-but-strong body against it, I suddenly knew something.

I am worthy.

A challenge had been placed before me, and having weighed it and considered it, I conquered it.

What I found wasn’t just a neat rock formation.

I found the adventurer, the warrior, I’ve always hoped was inside of me.

Find Your Warrior

As I descended, I heard the song of a waterfall not far from the trail.

Sure enough, the earth and its carpet of leaves had been beaten flat by the footsteps of other warriors who had come before.

When I stood before the falls, I wept again. I thanked God for granting me safety, and I thanked Him for making me strong. I thanked Him for such a beautiful place that I could enjoy all on my own, if even for a few minutes.

Then I attempted to return to the main trail.

But I couldn’t find it.

I gasped for breath from the climb up from the falls, wiping sweat out of my eyes. For a moment, panic set in.

Then I remembered that the trail was further up the hill, and I climbed my way back to the well-trodden road back to Highway 441 where my car was waiting for me.

As I reach the happy ending of this story, I have to pause and stress that while my choice to go to Courthouse Rock seemingly defied common sense, I retained as much common sense as I could in the process. I made the trek on a sunny, clear-skied day. It was an atypical, warm winter day, meaning there was no overgrowth obscuring the trail while the temperature was a balmy sixty degrees. I brought a well-charged phone, and before venturing into the backcountry, I made sure it was triangulating my position with high accuracy.

Sure, I had a lot of safeguards in place. Going on such an adventure without those safeguards would be foolish. And finding the warrior within isn’t the result of foolishness. In fact, I felt stronger having used so many precautions. I am strong and wise. I am adventurous and cautious.

And that gives me unparalleled confidence.

So I ask you, dear reader: Where will you find the warrior within? What lying voices are you eager to silence?

In other words, how will you balance your wisdom with challenges that will question your limits?

There is probably a challenge in your life that intimidates and even frightens you. It seems like it might be too much.

But with planning and preparation, could you be ready? Could you take it on and discover your strongest self?

In all you do, be wise, be safe.

But be willing to consider exploring the boundaries of safety. “Safety” might just be a word the oppressive voices in your own story – which are merely confirmations of the dreaded things we say to ourselves – are using to hold you back from greatness.

Whatever you do, have a wonderful adventure.

And as always, thank you for reading.