Watch that rock! Step over that root! Get ready to jump that stream! Watch the muddy landing! All these thoughts rush through my head as I dash down the single track dirt trail. With only one inch of synthetic rubber separating my body from the ground, it is imperative that my mind and spirit are one in sensing and responding to my surroundings. Before I even realize it, my mind has already examined the peripheral environment and decided on a course of action. When I come upon that muddy bog ahead, I must adjust my footing. When that low-hanging branch approaches, I must duck. When I reach that log, I will jump over it.

Trail running is nothing like road running. Running on a road I take a good glance at the awaiting asphalt, notice any imperfections in it, and memorize them. Then I let my mind wander as my legs do the work. Running on a trail is distinctively different.

There is no time to let my mind wander when I have to concentrate on slippery leaves and uneven terrain. Every step I take is a small adventure. What looked like a dry rock twenty feet away has now turned into a slippery boulder with jagged edges. Instead of my feet moving forward, one foot slides laterally off the edge while the other twists into painful contractions. Yet just as quickly as it starts, it ends. Instead of falling off the boulder into the water, my hand breaks my fall. Instead of limping home, my body redistributes its weight so that I may run away unscathed.

I love every minute of it. If my body is not on the trail, my mind is. No run through the woods is ever the same. The giant oak tree that welcomed me to the trail every day is now laying to rest from yesterday's storm. The groomed trail that once brought me down to the rushing creek has now been manicured by millions of droplets of water into sediment-filled crevasses. The putrid smell of a decaying deer is now gone thanks to the local scavengers. Nevertheless, for all the time I spend concentrating on the ground in front of me, wondering where my foot will go next, I always remind myself to stop, look around and reflect, for the trail has taught me many things.

Flexibility. While it is imperative that my muscles are limber enough to handle an occasional twisted ankle, having an open and flexible mind is much more important. In an environment covered with twigs and leaves, the trail can be lost in an instant. I remember running on what I thought was the trail, but later turned out to be nothing more than a rain runoff area. I was not upset, however, because what I discovered was more beautiful and more challenging than what "the" trail could have offered. By trusting my instincts I have found places never seen by humans. The simple act of letting my body roll with the terrain has taken me to adventures never imagined.

Humility. From a scenic overlook a forest appears enticing and pacific. Once immersed in it, however, one realizes how humbling a place it is. Looking up and noticing that my already challenging trail now blazed a path straight up a jagged landscape of gray granite, I scoffed. Although it appeared difficult, it seemed possible, for this was a popular trail hiked by hundreds every year. Bouncing freely from rock to rock up the cliff, my cadence painfully slowed as my heart rate nervously quickened. Suddenly my running shoes felt like roller skates as my legs filled with lactic acid and my footing slipped. Instead of a jackrabbit I now felt like a clumsy sloth clawing at knife and ball-bearing-covered ground. When I finally reached the summit of my Mt. Everest I gasped for oxygen and thirsted for water. Looking down at where I came from I noticed how difficult a climb it really was. While standing at the bottom of the cliff before my trek, my vision was clouded by gallons of endorphins. I failed to realize that in the life of this granite mountain my presence occupied less than a tenth of a nanosecond, and if I wanted to having a working relationship with it I had to show it the respect an elder deserves.

The granite beat me hard that day. Ten hours later, I was still sore. Tomorrow, however, I will be back. Although I will never be able to conquer it, maybe by visiting it frequently, studying its lines and cracks, and understanding its past, it will cut me some slack someday.

Order in a seemingly chaotic environment. Most of my runs start in a parking lot. I drive on nicely paved roads to a neatly lined parking lot and then squeeze my car between the two lines that mark "my" spot. As I first step onto the trail and look around I am awe struck with the beauty that awaits me. Millions of trees stand at attention, their branches jutting out in freakish directions. It all looks so pretty, yet so confusing and convoluted from afar. As I run through this sea of chaos, I stop to retie my shoe. Bending over I notice the ground beneath me for the first time. Under my feet and all around me are hundreds of crushed leaves and twigs. Next to them are worms and ladybugs and trillions of bacteria and viruses. Inside them there is at least one cell. Inside this cell there is a nucleus. Inside this nucleus there are millions of atoms, and around each atom are multiple electrons, protons and neutrons. Inside the atom is no man's land. Although several theories persist, no empirical research exists on the atom's contents. Yet it all works. For more than five billion years it has worked, and we still cannot explain precisely how almost one hundred elements existing freely in nature combine to form an animated organic being. As I continue to stare at this patch of life, I remain baffled. With so many moving parts, each acting independently, yet still dependent on the others for survival, it is amazing that I am standing here at all. Nothing ever created by humans has matched the complexity of us. People seem baffled when their personal computer plays them in chess, yet simultaneously figures out their tax return. What a joke! Even the most elementary of minds can outshine the most powerful computer. Can a computer spit out the square root of 65623 quicker than I can? Definitely. Yet can a computer survive extremes of cold and heat and still perform the same? When I log on to the Internet and read that hundreds of people died in a plane crash, does my computer feel the agony I do? No, and it never will. Humans are always trying to make machines better than themselves. It will never happen. Try as we may, a synthetic machine will always lack the intangible qualities that make a living being living.

Running the trail is more than a healthy physical workout. It is a spiritual journey. I love trail running not just because of the occasional deer I see or because I get all muddy and sweaty, but because it has allowed me to see things unrealizable in a concrete jungle. I have learned the value of living, the importance of challenge, the beauty in all levels of life and much more. Most important, however, I have learned that what was taught to me on the trail is not exclusive to the trail. Nature's lessons are universal truths.

The trail is not something I follow, but something I create. The challenge of the trail lies in its ambiguity, for I do not follow a trail, I blaze my own.