On Rabbit Trails

I have a metaphor for you.

When I lived down in Malibu, CA, I went on a hike with a friend once. We headed into the Calabasas hills, found the trail we thought we were looking for, and began a chipper dally down it. Before long though, the trail split. One trail seemed to be wider, but was covered over with fallen brush and grass. The other, a skinnier one, looked more beaten down. The latter beckoned more invitingly though-- it ran through some pretty trees and curved around a bend, and possibly up the side of a mountain. My friend and I are both adventurous, and were drawn to the idea of taking the trail that more possibly led to unknown, exciting things.

So we took the skinny one. Before long, we lost it. It disappeared into the brush and left us trail-less on the side of this mountain.

Not ready to admit defeat, we made up our minds to forge our own path, and try to get as high up on the hill as we could. We wanted a VIEW. Laughing, we both warned each other that we typically relied on OTHER people's sage advice for caution against stupid risks. "The two of us together might not be the best combination...!" we laughed. So we went higher, and higher-- slipping on loose dirt, clutching at the progressively fewer weeds and rocks that provided a hand-hold on the steep slope. At one point we looked down. One tumble would have sent us somersaulting head over feet down, down, down into the deep canyon hundreds of feet below. We deliberated. "If we fell...?"
"They'd probably need a helicopter to get us."
"Yeah... Is your cell phone getting service?"
"... No. Is yours?"
"Huh uh."
"Should we turn around?"

The other girl would always pause, squint in the sun, and then say, "I'm game for going higher if you are."

And so we would. Until finally, we couldn't any more. Was it a near slip? Or maybe just a giant bush that determinedly prevented us from going any farther? In any case, we finally made up our minds to start eking our way back down our made-up trail-- gravel rubbed into palms, dirt mixed with sweat behind our knees and elbow creases, bums dusty from an inch-by-inch slide back down the treacherous slope. We didn't get to the top of the mountain. We didn't find a view point. We just had to turn around because we couldn't make the trail go any farther.

Not the best idea, we later laughed. Fun, and a good adventure-- but really, not the best idea.

This is the connection:

Sometimes-- I see a rabbit trail. Deep down, I know it's a rabbit trail-- it's clearly a rabbit trail. I know it doesn't REALLY lead anywhere. But it looks good. It looks inviting. It looks intriguing, like it might be a fun adventure. So, what the heck? I follow after it; fall down down down the rabbit hole, or simply go far far farther than the trail would accommodate.


I like the look. I just want to look. I just want to try.

But following the rabbit trail, inevitably, leads to a turn-around. Because the trail just DOESN'T go any farther. I suppose I'm lucky if I get to a peaceful turn-around-- more often the risks HAVE turned hazardous, and there's a mess to be cleaned, and people to placate, and drama to get away from.


Examining these rabbit trails... is a reckless mood. Sometimes I return to old ones. This particular trail has already been wandered down and briar-patch-ended, but I'm in the mood to poke at it again. Maybe there was a divergent path off of that one I could try. Maybe the years have changed it. Maybe the outcome will be different. Maybe there's ACTUALLY something magnificent at the end.*

I feel like looking.

But my sense-- my deep-downs-- my intuition and my practicality say, "This is a rabbit trail, doofus. Rabbit trails don't get you to the tops of mountains. You have to find the real trails for that."

So the point of all this is: make sure you're walking on a real trail. Towards whatever adventure it is that you're pursuing. Because a real trail will get you there.

A rabbit trail won't.