I went out for a little hike this weekend.
Mistakes were made.
Normally, someone who is only twelve hours removed from a nasty head virus and a low-grade fever would take it easy.
I did not.
Normally, someone who pulled a hamstring a few weeks ago would stick to a casual walk along the road instead of hiking into the Green Mountain National Forest in knee-deep snow.
I did not.
And normally, in mid-February—after months of record cold and snowfall—someone heading into the backcountry would bring snowshoes.
I did not.
Here’s what happened.
I was finally starting to feel good after being sick for about a week.
I was stir-crazy.
My body wanted to move.
And honestly, I felt guilty about missing a few of my Determination Day commitments to be active every day.
I told myself a long hike would be redemption.
My backyard is literally the Green Mountain National Forest, and when you live that close, it’s easy to forget the magnitude of what that really means.
The route I chose climbs about 700 feet, runs along a steep ravine, then loops back.
Around the house, the sun was shining and the snow was bright—knee-deep at most.
I decided to skip the snowshoes and post-hole instead.
I don’t like getting snagged on branches when I snowshoe.
About thirty minutes in, I was already high up the mountain.
I could feel the fatigue that comes with pushing too soon after illness.
Heart rate strong.
Breathing weaker than it should be.
I pushed on.
The snow deepened—above my knees, sometimes up to my waist.
Step by step, lifting my legs high, climbing steadily upward.
As I moved along the ravine, the uphill slope was to my left and a steep drop to my right—about sixty degrees.
The hamstring I’d injured weeks earlier started reminding me it wasn’t fully healed.
I used tree branches and logs to keep from sliding.
Then I missed a step.
I slid just far enough to realize that the deeper you go into the ravine, the deeper the snow gets.
My fall ended with me neck-deep, trying—unsuccessfully at first—to swim my way out.
When I finally emerged, my energy was fading fast.
I also realized I’d twisted my left knee in the fall.
I checked my watch.
Nearly two hours had passed.
Sunset was about two hours away.
I decided to head back.
When I lifted my leg to climb uphill, sharp pain shot through my knee.
That’s when it fully registered:
I hadn’t been determined.
I’d been cocky.
While I still had my wits about me, I texted my son.
I told him where I was.
Shared my location.
And told him that if I wasn’t back by 4:30, to come find me.
I did make it back.
By 4:15.
It hurt.
I was exhausted.
And I was lucky.
Here’s the lesson—and why this matters in Week 7: Hold the Line.
Determination doesn’t mean doing more.
It doesn’t mean proving something.
And it definitely doesn’t mean ignoring context, recovery, or good judgment.
Holding the line means staying steady.
Respecting the plan.
And not letting ego hijack consistency.
I didn’t fail because I missed days earlier in the week.
I made mistakes because I tried to make up for them all at once.
That’s not determination.
That’s impatience.
Lesson learned.
Line held—just barely.
Onward.
