An unplanned hike often holds the richest rewards. On Memorial Day, with nothing but a vague urge to escape the noise of routine, and the frustrations brought on by the previous two days tending to household maintenance on our 124-year-old Queen Anne, my bride asked what I wished for the day, my response was simply “not to be frustrated.” After the house awoke, I found myself steering the car toward the Cherokee National Forest. The spontaneity of the trip was its own invitation: no agenda, no expectations, just a willingness to see what the day would offer.
Approaching lunch time, I knew the spot, my once per annum “beach” dog from the Tellico Beach Drive In along the Cherohala Skyway. A cheeseburger, a few hot dogs and some onion rings later, the crew was fed and ready for elevation. After we sadly found the road to Green Cove and Bald River Falls still closed, we set our intent on Indian Boundary. At 1,560 feet above sea level, the Indian Boundary Lake, a 96-acre expanse nestled among hardwoods and pines, is circled by a 3.6-mile trail that beckons both hikers and bikers. The path loops gently around the water’s edge, offering glimpses of mountain ridges and the hush of deep forest. As soon as my feet hit the trail, the world shrank to the sound of gravel underfoot and the laughter of children trailing ahead, their voices rising and falling with the rhythm of their discoveries.
Spring in the Cherokee National Forest is a time of abundance. The forest floor was alive with native wildflowers — wild geranium, red columbine and mountain laurel on full display, their colors vivid against the green understory. In the damper, shaded patches, clusters of mushrooms emerged: the golden trumpets of chanterelles and the fan-shaped oyster mushrooms clinging to fallen logs. Each find was a lesson in attention, a reminder that the forest’s treasures reveal themselves only to those who slow down and look.
The children, unburdened by adult agendas, were the best guides. They darted from one discovery to the next — pointing out a snail on top of a rhododendron leaf, frogs croaking and cicadas drumming in the distance, a tiger swallowtail butterfly fluttering in nonconcentric circles looking for the proper place to land. Their conversations were a running commentary on wonder: “Papa, don’t touch that mushroom!” “Do you think the fish can see us?” “What if we see a bear?” Their questions, sometimes puerile, sometimes profound, kept my wife and I anchored in the present.
Wildlife is never guaranteed but always anticipated in the Cherokee National Forest. We missed a bear by mere seconds — another hiker, wide-eyed, told us of a black bear ambling across the trail, unconcerned and majestic. As one child was disguising fear, the other was expressing disappointment, which quickly turned to excitement as we reached a narrow peninsula, where the lake’s surface rippled with life. Catfish, bluegill and bass are common here, their shadows darting beneath the water; my son and I wishing we brought poles and bait. We are planning a return trip.
As the loop wound back toward the trailhead, the mood shifted from exuberance to reflection. The forest, with its endless cycles of growth and decay, seemed to invite a quieter kind of attention. In these moments, the teachings of Stoicism felt especially relevant. The Stoics believed that living in accordance with nature meant accepting both its beauty and its unpredictability, cultivating mindfulness and self-reflection in the face of whatever arises.
Hiking without a plan, I realized, is an act of surrender — to the weather, to the terrain, to the surprises and setbacks that mark any journey. The missed bear sighting, the muddy shoes, the lack of easily accessible toilets — these were not inconveniences, but reminders of our place within the larger order of things. The forest is indifferent to our schedules and expectations; it simply is. As the Stoics taught, our task is not to control nature, but to align ourselves with it, to find contentment in the moment, and to greet each experience — pleasant or not — with equanimity.
By the time we returned to the car, tired and a little dirty, the day felt complete in a way that no amount of planning could have achieved. The unplanned hike had become a lesson in presence, gratitude, and humility — a small but meaningful step toward living more fully, in harmony with the world around us – and not frustrated.
(C. Seth Sumner is engaged in the greater Cleveland community and serves in various roles helping to improve the lives of others. Contact him at c.seth.cleveland@gmail.com.)
