Brent holds the maps. He plans the routes. When we follow Brent, we’re on a Brentventure.

Brent knows about most of the historic roads in the area. He likes to follow them wherever they go. I follow Brent. Sometimes we end up at a swamp. Other times we run into a high way. On more than one occasion, I’ve followed Brent into someone’s back yard.

The maps it seems can’t keep up with suburban sprawl. When we’re not using maps, Brent has apps. The apps show where the trails are. They show where we are. They also show trails followed by others.

On this ride, we went exploring an old mine road. This road led to an old mine site abandoned decades ago. This is a road to nowhere. Some brave soul had found a way to connect this old mine road with a road along side of the biggest gravel pit in the area. Was there a trail? Could we link up to different trail areas in a new way? We had to know.

I’ve never gotten through there before. It’s a blueberry bog. There giant rocks everywhere. But it looks like someone made it through a couple of weeks ago. Maybe there’s a path.

The possibility of finding a new way of making the impassible passable was too much for us. We worked our way out to the old mine road. Once on it, the riding was a treat. As wide as a carriage, the road bed was pretty firm. Grass was growing through the middle. The pedaling was fun and easy.

The pedaling was fun and easy until we reached the end of the road. Once it ended, it ended. We kept going. There wasn’t a path yet. We decided to forge on and follow a faint blue line on the app. This was the path that someone had hiked two weeks earlier.

Normal people would not have done what we did. The rocks? Er. The boulders were everywhere. They were all different sized. It was as though someone filled a house with furniture, turned the furniture into rocks, burnt down the house and planted high bush blueberry bushes all through the ruins.

Walking through high bush blueberries is difficult. Doing it with a thirty pound bike on my back was nearly impossible. There was not path. There was no room. Fire red leaves topped face high blueberry bushes that slashed our cheeks and threatened our eyes. Massive boulders tried to break our ankles while bruising and scraping our shins. Every step was a snag filled struggle.

We struggled like this for well over an hour. The entire time we followed the faint blue line on the app map. We followed the person who was there before us, convinced that we were somehow just a little off. We imagined that if we kept zigging and zagging we would eventually get on the path that this other person knew about.

As we smashed, we talked about what we were doing. We climbed hills and explored ridges hoping to find a path. Through the trees, we’d see what seemed to be clearings, only to find more bush. And still, we were, according to the app, following the exact route as the person before us. They were likely just as lost as we were.

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Despite following someone, I felt lost. There were no points of reference. There was no trail. The bushwacking was nearly impossible. It was moderately overwhelming.

We found a large flat rock at the top of a small rise. I wanted to stop there. I was hungry, thirsty, tired and scratched to shit. I needed a break. The rock was flat, even, predictable and wasn’t attempting to rip us to shreds.

Maybe I’ll just live here. Though I’d likely get lyme disease from the deer ticks, I moaned.

No deer here, Brent replied. This is bear country.

Right. Time to keep moving, immersing ourselves in ‘mother nature’. If nature is a mother, it’s a nasty, resentful and viscous one. Anyone who refers to ‘mother nature’ as though nature is kind, nurturing and generous has not spent enough time in the bush.

When we came to the crest of the next hill we saw something even more viscous than nature. We saw the work of humans. We surged up the final hill and broke through the last of the trees. What we encountered was incredible.

The gravel pit off Rocky Lake Road is a vast expanse. It covers acres and acres. We looked down on the roads and pits and machinery. It was very ugly and very human.

We looked at the map on the app again. The thin blue line left by someone else’s journey turned to the right. It followed along the road at the back edge of the pit for a kilometer before diving back into the bush. It was time to part ways.

Was there a path ahead? I didn’t want to know. Neither did Brent. Instead, we decided to turn left, skirt the edge of the pit then roll out onto the new section of highway currently under construction.

We went out looking for a path beyond what was known. We followed the route of a lost stranger. Hoping for a trail, or at least an indication of a path, we found nothing but nearly impassible bushes and boulders. Along the way, we felt completely lost.

And.

If we went back there and walked it again, the rout would become more defined. If we went back there again, we’d be more familiar with the terrain. If others followed us, we’d likely have a path, then eventually a trail.

This is what the process of growth, of change is like. We get lost in the woods. We think there should be a way through. In most cases when someone was there before us, they were likely just as lost as we feel.

With insistence, patience, persistence and someone there with us, we can create that path, that way of being in the world. If we follow that route multiple times, it becomes a new trail. Once there, we can access as needed.

Where’s the bush in your life?

Where can you get lost?

Where is there unexplored territory that it would be worth it to struggle enough to connect distant parts of yourself?