Estimated reading time: 7 minutes
Introduction
Last week, my wife, two-year-old daughter, and I went on our first hike of the year. It was mid-June. This is unusual because it is our tradition to do our first hike of the year on or near January 1. How did 6 months go by before the first hike of the year? I asked my wife this the day before we went. We couldn’t come up with a good answer.
Younger me would have considered this an abomination. But that’s how life goes. When I was a kid, my uncle took me hiking nearly every Sunday. We hiked year-round, and those trips shaped who I became. Even after college and into adulthood, hiking remained a constant in my life. Eventually, I started bringing my own children along, and today they share the same love of the outdoors that was passed down to me.
So what happened? Why did it take so long to get out there this year? Well, the answer is life.
It was a combination of things that conspired to delay the first hike of the year. A cold winter, a packed spring schedule, and the simple inertia of putting things off all contributed to our late start.
After January passed without a hike, then February, then March, I barely noticed the months slipping by. I seem to do that with many things in my life, get out of good habits like exercise and healthy eating, simply by not thinking about them.
So we found ourselves in mid-June without a single hike in, even though I had planned at least one a month this year. We decided to take it easy with a two-and-a-half-mile hike in a nearby state park. It wasn’t ambitious at all. We weren’t climbing a mountain or headed out into the wilderness. A younger version of me wouldn’t have considered it much of a challenge.
Maybe in midlife, the challenge isn’t the distance, it’s getting started.
Section 1: The Fantasy Adventure Problem
Even now, I catch myself dreaming about ambitious adventures—backpacking trips, mountain climbs, even hiking the Appalachian Trail. The problem is that those adventures require time, money, planning, and energy, all of which seem harder to come by in midlife.
Those plans are great, and I will hike the Appalachian Trail someday, somehow. I think the problem for many middle-aged men is that because we can’t make these incredible journeys happen every weekend, we often end up doing nothing.
Sometimes perfection is the enemy of adventure.
Section 2: Real Life Has Snacks and Diaper Bags
Going on a hike with a toddler requires a different kind of preparation. The distance has to be right, the snacks have to be packed, and there’s a good chance you’ll spend much of the hike carrying your child.
A tough hike looks a lot different at 48 than it did at 18. The real adventure is getting everything and everyone packed up and into the car.
Section 3: The Unexpected Gift of an “Easy Hike”
The three of us set out on what, I thought, was going to be an easy hike. I had hiked the route a couple of times before and didn’t remember it being too difficult. As is my usual routine, I try to make a loop so that we always see new things, and I try to get the uphill part done first. I placed our daughter into the carrier and hoisted her on my back.
The first mile was easy. It was a steady climb, but not too steep. Then the grade increased, and I noticed that my calves were starting to burn. I had walked the route before, but without 25 pounds of toddler and 10 pounds of carrier on my back. About the same time, our little one started becoming restless and squirmy. At the 1.5-mile point, it was time to abandon our planned route and take an expedient way back to the car.
I was surprised by how quickly I tired. The climb reminded me that my fitness isn’t where it used to be.
But even in adversity, there is beauty. On the way back down the hill, our daughter noticed everything. Along the path ran a small creek that would eventually feed the Schuylkill River, then the Delaware River, and finally the Atlantic Ocean. We watched a tiny trickle get larger and larger. “Look at the water, Daddy!” she cried over and over.
Chipmunks scurried here and there among the rocks. A water snake crossed our path. The breeze was cool, and the scent of the pines filled the air. We were surrounded by nature, and our daughter was loving every minute of it. I must have been the same way forty years ago on my first hike. She was falling in love. That’s how it started for me, too.
I often wonder what it would be like to be a child again — to see everything as brand new and exciting. Her curiosity and joy turned a simple two-mile hike into an adventure that, at least for her mom and me, will be remembered forever.
Section 4: Why Starting Matters More Than Distance
The important thing wasn’t the mileage or the elevation. It was getting out there again, discovering the thrill of hiking in nature, and sharing that love with a little girl who will someday share it with her children.
My uncle passed away two years ago. He taught me everything he knew about the woods and hiking. At this point, I’ve passed that knowledge down to six children, so his legacy is alive and well. It might have been an “easy” hike, but the goal wasn’t to hike two miles; it was to remain a family that hikes and loves the outdoors.
We got a late start this year, but we broke that inertia. We have more hikes planned. We even bought a pair of little hiking boots.
Section 5: The Struggle Bus Lesson
When I started this blog, I imagined it would be about grand adventures in middle age. Big challenges. Big goals. Big stories.
Maybe that’s not the point at all.
I think a lot of middle-aged men get stuck waiting for the perfect time. We tell ourselves we’ll start exercising when work settles down. We’ll learn the instrument when we have more free time. We’ll take the trip when the kids are older. We’ll tackle the big challenge someday.
But someday has a way of turning into next year.
Maybe what we need isn’t more motivation. Maybe we just need a smaller first step.
Instead of “I’ll run a marathon,” maybe it’s “I’ll walk around the block.”
Instead of practicing the banjo for an hour, maybe it’s ten minutes today.
Instead of dreaming about hiking the entire Appalachian Trail, maybe it’s a two-mile walk in a local park with the people you love.
The truth is that momentum doesn’t come from thinking about adventure. It comes from doing something, no matter how small.
Sometimes adventures don’t begin with courage or inspiration.
Sometimes they begin with showing up.
Conclusion
It wasn’t an epic twenty-mile expedition.
We didn’t set any speed records. We didn’t summit a mountain. We didn’t even finish the route we originally planned.
But we got outside.
We moved our bodies. We breathed fresh air. We watched a little girl fall in love with the woods.
Most importantly, we broke the inertia.
After six months of saying we should go hiking, we finally did.
The first hike of the year wasn’t remarkable because of the distance. It was remarkable because it happened.
And sometimes that’s enough.
Because the hardest step in any adventure isn’t the biggest one.
It’s the first one.
About the Author
Rob Rice is a nurse educator, writer, husband, father, and lifelong learner. After more than two decades in nursing and mental health, he started Struggle Bus Academy to document his journey toward better health, personal growth, new skills, and a more adventurous life. His goal is simple: to make his fifties his best decade yet.