My acceptance of this trip began to gain some momentum when I finally left the interstate just before Charlotte, NC. Rolling hills bound by white wooden fences suddenly appeared on either side of the two-lane road. And the flowering dogwoods added depth to the painted landscape as they jumped from the canvas against their lush green background. They emulated the essence of spring, and it made me happy to finally be out in the country.

     I met my friend at Kings Mountain State Park. He'd thoughtfully changed our campsite location to one that backed up to the woods instead of one next to the many large RVs, each arriving with their own dog. We set up our tents and headed over to meet the organizer of the group and hear about the plans for the weekend.

     As we got out of the car, I felt like I'd stepped right onto the set of an old John Candy movie. Parked in front of me was an RV with its striped awning rolled out to deter any rays of sun from reaching anything or anyone residing underneath. And there sat our organizer in a camping chair with green plastic grass beneath her flip-flopped feet. An overweight ‘wiener’ dog sat nestled in her lap, wearing a sweater, which I was certain had been lovingly hand knitted by the owner herself. The husband was firing up the large gas grill, much like the one I had back home.

     We were made to feel very welcomed as we quickly went through the usual small talk, then mentioned our proposed hike on the trails the next day and asked what time they and the others in the group had planned to start the hike.

     “Nope… don’t think anybody in this group's gonna be hiking tomorrow. We’re probably just gonna sit around here all day. But now, ya’ll don’t forget about the Mexican fiesta potluck dinner tomorrow night. It starts at 7:00 p.m., and we’d love to have ya join us!”

     We graciously accepted the dinner invitation and then politely excused ourselves to get back to our campsite and cook our dinner over an open fire. We held our laughter and comments, which ended up being the bulk of the conversation for the rest of the weekend. My friend had obviously not done his research when he decided this would be a great group to join for some new hiking adventures. Their idea of adventure was checking out the other RVs at the campground and wondering what ‘lucky’ dish their friends would bring to the potluck.

     The next morning, in our search for something to contribute to dinner, we stumbled onto a local tractor show complete with food trucks and trinket vendors. I was coerced into stopping just to see if they had some great local barbecue. They did not. Instead, we were bombarded by local candidates running for sheriff, petted some baby goats, and witnessed the most giant inflatable tractor slide known to man. It was definitely time to hit the trails.

     A layered wall of stone created a cascading waterfall at the foot of the trail, and just the sound of it relaxed my mood. We hiked along the stream for a short distance before heading up into the woods. The dogwoods appeared again to make their contribution to the scenery, and we occasionally spotted wild azaleas, thistles, and periwinkle. We stopped in an open field for lunch and lazily sipped on a beer we'd decided to bring as our treat—we were not going to let our RV friends have all the fun.

     My fellow hiker and I had only been on two other adventures together, but we just seemed to click for whatever reason. I really did enjoy his company and had always believed that if you got through life with just the number of friends you could count on one hand, you’d lived a great one. So we began a conversation on the way back to the campsite. We divulged the true reason we'd joined our original group and why we needed these trips. We told secrets that had shaped our lives and the demons we were fighting inside our heads because of them. I silently cried at the reality of his painful and abusive past and felt ashamed that mine seemed so trivial in comparison.

     Engrossed in our conversation, we took a wrong turn and hiked two miles more than we'd planned. Still thinking there was time for a quick shower before dinner, we reached our campsite to find a note taped to my tent door. Dinner initially planned for 7:00 p.m. had been moved up by two hours. We were late! There was no time for a shower, so we grabbed our contributions of bean salad and beer and headed in the direction of Site #94, still sweaty from our eight-mile hike. It was almost 6:00 p.m.

     As we introduced ourselves to the others in the group, it was even more obvious that we had not envisioned the same outdoor weekend. Hardly anyone moved out of his or her chairs, which had been permanently placed in a circle around the campfire. There were several dogs roaming from one person to the next, and they quickly became the focus of everyone’s attention as the conversation revolved around stories of the furry creatures instead of the people we'd intended to get to know. This was a tight group, and I wondered if their website had 'no hikers/backpackers allowed' as fine print somewhere. We petted the dogs and excused ourselves early. 

     Aside from not having another outdoor group option, I was extremely thankful for our beautiful hike and the engaging conversation with my friend. His internal struggles were obvious, and I'd glad he trusted me to those dark times in his life that still haunt him. I would have never chosen to do this on my few precious days at the end of my work week, but I decided there might be a way to salvage that.

     On my drive home, I exited the interstate just before Columbia. I didn’t turn on my GPS. I just took the backroads and headed in the direction I thought was closest to southeast. There was no one waiting anywhere for me, or calling to see why I wasn’t home yet. No one else was driving and making the decision to just stay on the interstate to get us home faster. I was in control, and it felt really good as I witnessed the allure of this part of our state.

     I crossed over the Congaree River and mentally filed a note to suggest this as a possible kayak trip. I rolled down my windows and took in the scents of freshly plowed fields, slowed down to watch herds of cows lazily grazing, and then I reached the quaint little farming community of Saint Matthews. I found myself completely in awe of its natural beauty. Huge fields extended as far as you could see, newly planted, so there were only large machines that rolled across them to supply water to the new growth as they towered majestically up into the soft blue sky.

     As I continued on the two-lane road, I spotted something very colorful to my left. The closer I got, the more excited I was to see the most beautiful purple flowers, so dense the field took on a blanket of intense color beyond any I had ever seen. It was lavender, and directly beside it was yet another field planted in wispy soft yellow and green canola. I just wanted to stop and  envelop myself in their unexpected splendor.

     Aware that my daylight hours were quickly eluding me, I reluctantly drove back to the interstate for the duration of my trip back to Charleston. The detour had lightened my mood and the boredom of the interstate gave me time to realize that even though I hadn't wanted to go on this trip, I was leaving with the satisfaction of having done something for a friend. And if you stay intuitive to the silent tears, it may help you have less of your own.