This morning Leah and I hiked with my dad. We drove separately and followed him to a parking lot, then hiked a trail together for a while. It wasn't a straight-up-a-mountain trail, but there were parts that sharply inclined or declined, then flattened out again for a while. There were loose rocks that shifted as we walked. There were solid bigger rocks to stumble over. The path was narrow. People passed us going both directions, and sometimes there was no space to step aside for them.
As I followed him, I listened to his stories of hiking mountains as a boy, and stories of his favorite hikes as an adult. He talked about the beauty of Utah, being born and raised here and then coming back after years of living in other states. He talked about hurting with arthritis in his feet; that sometimes steroid shots calm the pain, but sometimes they don't. He can't move like he used to and wants to. I don't like that. I'm sad about that.
At a certain point on the trail where it started another steep decline, my dad stopped and said he wanted to keep going, but he knows his limits and had to turn around. He wanted us to keep hiking further, and we did. That's why he had us drive separately. But he turned around and made his way back to the parking lot without us.
The rest of the hike, I kept thinking about the lesson he reminded me of...to know my limits. It's a lesson I've learned over and over the hard way. I've known my limits but pushed myself past them so many times, then regretted it and suffered. Physically, mentally, socially, emotionally...I have examples of each. My dad very literally showed me today how to stop before it's too late; how to know my limits. I'm going to remember this. I'm grateful for this hike together on a beautiful mountain trail. I needed it.
