This is not a fox story
Unplanned beauty in the light of our plan's ashes
In the fall of 2020, I drove off a paved road outside Bend, Oregon, and started a seven-mile drive on a gravel, rust-colored, juniper-lined dirt strip to begin a long hike into the Deschutes Wilderness area of Central Oregon. My plan for the week was to hike nearly 40 miles around three inactive volcano peaks called the Three Sisters.
Filled with exuberance, hubris, and toting a heavy pack, I was hopeful for unmatched peace in the indescribable stillness of the wilderness. Among the glorious sights, the absolute void of any sound in a remote place is hard to explain and, at first, almost impossible to feel at home in. But, especially for a guy who lives in the busy Northeast and a quarter mile from a semi-filled four-lane road that bellows with truck brakes and rumbling hill climbing horsepower, the stillness of such a place is a blissful harbor for a buzzing mind.
A year prior, I’d been in the same wilderness, and the experience was one I felt I had to return to. The views as a first-timer gobsmacked me. I didn’t cover many miles as I was more a tourist than a hiker. But, this year would be different; I would cover some distance.
I signed the wilderness permit and ignorantly loped toward the trail for the first-day trek of 14 miles. But, unfortunately, what those miles held would flatten my hopes for reasons I couldn’t control.
I’ll spare you some details, but unbeknownst to me, a windstorm had sent many fire-weakened trees in the Pole Creek area down across the trail. The fire that ravaged the area happened in 2012, but Oregon’s current fire season had crews still busy fighting fires and unable to clear the path of the newly fallen timber that would be in my way. So, not knowing the recent storm’s impact, I stumbled into a situation that nearly guaranteed I could not cover the ground I’d hoped.
Giant Douglas firs had fallen in haphazard stacks to ruin hopes for decent progress in the first half of the day. Getting over trees is laboring enough; with a full pack for the week, it’s draining and a bit hazardous. A severely turned ankle could mean a helicopter ride out.
On the first day's evening, I arrived at camp about three hours later than I’d hoped, banged up from more than a few stumbles, and ready to crash land on the first campsite available.
Between my weary body, a water filter that had decided to slow to a drip, and the concern that the awaiting miles could be as strewn with blown-down trees, I concluded my week’s hike was not going to happen as I had planned. This is not unusual, ‘adventure’ is what happens when plans go sideways; in the wilderness, we don’t get to be in charge — thinking otherwise is vanity.
On the following evening, after covering only a few miles, I was at a breathtakingly picturesque campsite but stewing about the now smaller plans. In a mixture of disappointment and anger, I sat in the unbridled beauty—what a conflicted soul. Yes, I was taking in the unparalleled grandeur I’d hoped, sleeping out in it, held by the stillness and waking up to it, but I was also watching my carefully scripted goals go up in smoke.
That evening, I was standing by a small azure alpine lake. While filtering the next morning’s water, I saw what I’d presumed to be a dog trotting on the trail about a quarter mile from where I stood. It was heading my way in the fading rays of golden hour. I initially thought it was a border collie mix off-leash and a bit ahead of its owner. This guess evaporated as the four-legged beast smoothly drifted over the amber-lit meadow like smoke. It moved like a fox and was heading west toward my Outside magazine cover-worthy campsite. A site with the evening’s food (and all my other food) laid out in the open. As I tried to make sense of the fox-like size and movements juxtaposed with the black coat that didn’t match any fox I’d ever seen, I was spellbound by the mystery of what I saw.
As it trotted a few hundred yards away and past me, I decided I undoubtedly was seeing a fox, and that fox was heading right to my food for the night. And it was now closer to my only evening meal than I.
I grabbed my bottles and clogged filter in a flash and joined a foot race against a fox with a decent head start.
I never ran track, but even at my youngest, racing a fox on its home turf would have been a laughable match-up. Now, at 50 and sore, it was beyond ridiculous.
I was giving chase, but at a final moment, before entering the ring of massive evergreens around my site, she turned and stared for a second at me. She probably got a fox-sized laugh at me, trying to catch my breath and spilling water. A second passed with our eyes on each other, and then she bounded across the finish line out of my sight and into my campsite.
For a beautiful beast who had likely never seen an NFL game, that look back before crossing the goalline of my campsite was an end zone celebration.
As I hurried to chase her off, I half wanted her to be there; however, I assumed my food, and she would both be gone.
Scrambling into my site, I saw my freeze-dried bag meal was still balanced on a felled tree next to my tent where I left it. Nothing looked disturbed as I panted and tried not to be mildly disappointed in the aloneness.
It wasn’t until a week after returning home, and after a little online research, that I learned that I had lost a footrace with a Sierra Nevada fox. Google tells me they’re rare and rarely seen. They often present as jet back with a tail that looks like it was dipped in white paint. (pictures below, the first I took, the second I didn’t)
Unexpected beauty in the light of our burning plans
We often think our worth is created by the seamless execution of our well-conceived plans. Observers may unknowingly tell us as much. However, approaching life this way may mean we overlook the beauty we never planned.
Through the many unpredictable changes of the last few years, a more promising approach to life has been finding surprise fulfillment amid unfulfilled plans. Living this way can also help us avoid the pitfall of allowing our visions alone to shape our worth— a challenging position when there are fewer realized dreams.
When our worth is founded on what we’ve accomplished or the projects we see realized, we are often blind to the unexpected delights that stumble into our less-than-perfect outcomes. Even though it’s impossible to constantly operate at peak performance, knocking out all our goals, running laps around our expectations, and compiling wins, we still try. While we are stewing in all that hasn’t gone right or yet come to fruition, we’re missing the beauty of the present.
Into our spaces of disappointment will often trot a fox of unexpected delight. What we didn’t plan, and frankly never could have because it was beyond our knowledge to expect, will stroll into the fading light of a day we’ve written off as falling short.
Happiness is a skill that we build. We build it by looking for the beauty in the moments we’re presently in. But, unfortunately, it’s made weaker when we become overly attached to our realized goals.
Find your fox
Daily, work to find just one unexpected delight — some unplanned and usually previously unnoticed visitation of beauty. It’s okay if you didn’t create it or have overlooked it till now. Jot it down. No, seriously, write it down in your day planner, or create a folder on Notes on your phone. Ruthlessly commit to the discovery of this tender arrival. It’s a practice that will build a kind of delight radar. Continue this practice, and you’ll start spotting foxes of your own. Over time you’ll be less likely to miss the unexpected wins in our' failures.”
Be well Feral Souls.