“One foot in front of the other,” I kept telling myself. I had first learned these words while reading Cheryl Strayed’s memoir “Wild.” I kept repeating them, as if narrating my movement might alleviate the physical pain of summiting nearly 4,000 feet.

Unlike Cheryl Strayed, I wasn’t thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. But I was on my way to the top of the highest peak east of the Mississippi. My calves were throbbing. My pack was growing heavier. I probably had a blister between two of my toes.

This was not the plan. Earlier that morning, my friends Sara and Brenna and I had followed our GPS off of the Blue Ridge Parkway to begin a 6-mile hike we’d found on the AllTrails app. It started off easy. We welcomed the downhill climb but knew it would be short-lived: We were on a loop trail, so we’d eventually end up where we started.

At least, that’s what we thought.

Four miles in, we were still losing elevation. “Maybe we missed a turn somewhere,” one of us said. Still, we carried on, passing three men around our age who were hiking in the opposite direction.

“Where are you guys coming from?” Brenna asked them.

“Black Mountain Campground,” they responded in unison. We consulted our trail map. Black Mountain Campground was nowhere to be found.

Most people would have turned around then and there, but Sara, Brenna and I are not most people. We decided to merge onto the next fork in the trail. Our skewed logic was that if the men we’d passed had come from a place that wasn’t on the map, turning onto another trail might get us back on track.

At the six mile mark, we still found ourselves on a steady decline. It was at that point that we decided to turn around. We were approaching a parking lot, which we figured must have been the trailhead to whatever path we were actually on. The hike back up wouldn’t be easy, but it’s where our car was parked.

The loop, or at least the one we thought we were on, did not exist. We came to terms with that fact after we’d turned around. While all of the normal hikers began the hike from the bottom of the mountain, we spent the first 6 miles journeying downhill, only to spend the second half of our hike climbing back up. By then, we were hungry and fatigued. What we thought would be a short six-mile hike ended up being a strenuous 12-mile journey.

As we started back up, the three of us were quiet, focused on nothing more than moving our feet. “One foot in front of the other,” I kept repeating. They were the only words I could muster. I couldn’t think too hard about the pain in my feet and ankles, or wonder if my toes were bleeding. I just put one foot in front of the other until I regained momentum.

Once I caught my breath, I allowed my body to let out a soft but powerful giggle. It was all a bit ridiculous. But Sara and Brenna have known me long enough to know that when they sign up to hike with me, something is bound to go awry. And this was just another one of my crazy adventures.

But I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. If every adventure went exactly according to plan, it would hardly be an adventure.

Plus, taking the long way around has its benefits. The longer route offered a diverse topographical landscape that we were lucky enough to enjoy as we traversed. The mossy boulders encouraged us to slow down and take in our surroundings. Fields of wildflowers and gardens of fern gave us space to breathe, to reflect. To think about something other than our legs moving.

A few hidden overlooks throughout showed us how high up we really were. We had to take a mental picture because our iPhone cameras didn’t do the scenery justice.

After finally reaching the top of the peak, a 360-degree view of the Appalachian Mountains greeted us with a vastness I’d never before witnessed. It was as if we had just run a marathon, and the mountains had come to watch us cross the finish line.

We knew other hikers had reached this summit before (and many did so faster and without getting lost). But we had climbed the highest mountain in the east. We did it in our own way and we did it together.

For me, that’s what adventure is all about. It’s not the miles you track or the elevation you gain. It’s the moments that challenge your ego, that test your resilience. It’s the experiences that are so profound you can’t even anticipate them.

We all have some wanderlust lurking inside of us. Sometimes we just need to get a little lost in order to find it.

This essay was submitted as part of the Recreation.gov "Share Your Story" Contest