Fired, Molded, and Set Aside
7) Trusting the Unknown: A Journey of Faith, Fear, and Unexpected Blessings
The Journey to the Fishing Camp
After recovering from my masonry job, I found an intriguing new opportunity: a position at a remote fishing camp deep in the mountains, about 100 kilometers from the city. The details were sparse—passed along during a brief phone call with vague directions—but the adventure was irresistible. Early that morning, I packed my gear, ate a hearty breakfast, and set off in my truck, ready to embrace the unknown.
The highway stretched ahead, its curves carving through rolling valleys and dense forests. The morning air was crisp, carrying the earthy aroma of pine and moss, and I rolled down the window to breathe it in. A river ran alongside the road, its surface shimmering like glass in the sunlight. As the city disappeared behind me, the scenery grew wilder. The arid hills near Kamloops faded into thick greenery, and towering trees leaned over the road, creating a tunnel that seemed to welcome me deeper into the wilderness.
Eventually, I reached Little Fort, where an old weathered sign pointed me onto a dirt road. Gravel replaced pavement, and the smooth hum of tires gave way to the crunch of loose stones. The truck jolted and swayed as the road narrowed, climbing steadily into the mountains. Dust rose in pale clouds behind me, marking my progress into the unknown.
As I drove, the road grew more challenging. Potholes and jagged rocks tested the truck’s suspension, and the path hugged the mountainside precariously. The drop to my right was steep, and I tightened my grip on the wheel, every bump a reminder of how little room there was for error. Occasionally, the forest parted, revealing breathtaking glimpses of the valley below, where silver rivers twisted through a sea of green. Despite the beauty, I couldn’t linger. The road demanded my full attention.
Higher up, the forest grew denser, the trees pressing in close. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden streaks, and the air turned cool and sharp, tinged with the scent of damp earth. Birds called faintly from the shadows, their songs muffled by the thick underbrush. With each turn of the wheels, the landscape felt more remote, more removed from the world I knew.
Eventually, the truck could go no further. The path had narrowed into a steep incline of loose gravel and deep ruts, and I knew I couldn’t risk pushing the vehicle any harder. I pulled into a small clearing and shut off the engine, letting the silence of the forest settle around me. With no other choice, I laced up my boots, adjusted my pack, and set off on foot.
The hike was steep and demanding, but the rhythm of my boots against the trail calmed me. The air was crisp and clean, filling my lungs with each breath. Sunlight flickered through the trees as I climbed, and the occasional rustle of leaves or birdcall reminded me that I wasn’t alone in the wilderness. As the hours passed, my mind wandered to simpler times—childhood days spent exploring the woods, when every path was an adventure and every turn held the promise of discovery.
Suddenly, the forest went silent. I froze mid-step, my pulse quickening. A shadow darted across the trail ahead, and I caught sight of a bear cub disappearing into the underbrush. My chest tightened as one thought consumed me: Where’s the mother?
I stood motionless, straining to hear any sound that might warn of her presence. The silence pressed in, heavy and tense, and every instinct urged me to retreat. But something deeper pushed me forward—a quiet assurance that I wasn’t walking this path alone. Slowly, cautiously, I adjusted my pack and took a step forward.
The trail wound higher, and soon I reached a fork in the road. My directions hadn’t mentioned this, and I hesitated, unsure which way to go. With no clear markers, I chose the left path, hoping it would lead me to the camp. The trail grew muddier, the ruts deeper, and my progress slowed. Just as doubt began to creep in, I spotted wooden cabins through the trees. Relief flooded over me—until I realized I was at the wrong camp.
A man emerged from one of the cabins, his rugged face softening as I explained my mistake. “You missed the turn,” he said with a chuckle. “But you’re here now, so come in and eat. We’ll figure it out after.” Grateful, I followed him inside.
The cabin was simple but warm, the smell of fried fish and roasted potatoes filling the air. The man and his companions welcomed me with good-natured teasing, their laughter melting away the tension of the day. Over dinner, they shared stories of life in the wilderness, their tales of close encounters and fishing triumphs painting a vivid picture of the rugged beauty I had just begun to experience.
After the meal, the man called my boss and offered to drive me to the correct camp. The ride was bumpy and slow, but as we rounded the final bend, the sight of the camp nestled beside a shimmering lake brought a wave of relief. My boss greeted me with a firm handshake and a knowing smile. “Glad you made it,” he said, his tone making it clear that my detour had already become a story worth telling.
Looking back, that wrong turn felt less like a mistake and more like a necessary part of the journey. The road had tested my resolve, but it had also brought moments of unexpected kindness and beauty. It reminded me that the challenges we face often lead to lessons we can’t learn any other way. Even when the path seems uncertain, there’s always something guiding us forward—one step at a time.