Fractals of Resilience

Life Lessons from an Ordinary Trail

Life often feels like a fractal, where the smallest parts mirror the most challenging, complex aspects. This thought struck me on a recent hike in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. Let me take you along on this little adventure to illustrate.

The SARA Crack Trail—endearingly known as "Sara's Crack"—yeah, it is kind of funny. SARA stands for the Special Activities and Recreation Area, an 1,100-acre regional park with stunning mountain views and access to Lake Havasu. The “Crack” itself is a slot canyon you encounter along this 3.4-mile out-and-back trail. The hike begins with a deceptively simple walk through a wash, which, if you’re not familiar, is a bit like trekking through loose sand—though not the firm sand you find by the water. This part alone is more challenging than it seems.

Following the winding path, you’re treated to sweeping views of the natural landscape that you’d miss entirely if you stayed within the city limits. The trail hides the destination from view, leaving each bend as a reveal, and then, finally, the “crack” appears. That’s when things get interesting.

The trail is unofficially rated “moderate,” but when you first enter the slot canyon, you might question that assessment. I couldn’t help but consider the challenge of making the return trip, especially with a hiking partner who’d recently undergone back surgery. It crossed my mind that we might need a backup plan. Although the canyon wasn’t as breathtaking as some I’d seen in Utah, it was a stunning, immersive experience that had me completely absorbed.

We passed a few map stations, but I wasn’t particularly focused on tracking our progress. Each turn in the trail brought a fresh adventure, and with the perfect weather, I felt no need to measure our steps. Eventually, we reached what seemed like the trail’s “end,” where thick overgrowth blocked further passage toward the lake. Neither of us felt inclined to wade through brambles just to reach the water’s edge, so we called it our endpoint. Instead, we opted for plan B: taking the Blue Trail back, which only added a slight elevation increase but offered a more forgiving path for the return trip. This route would also help us avoid the trickiest parts of the slot canyon, which had been tough enough to navigate on the way down. It was the kind of choice that, though not part of the plan, saved us a world of struggle on the way back.

When Clarity Becomes the Challenge

Heading up the short spur to the Blue Trail was nothing short of spectacular. From this higher vantage point, we could better admire the water and the unique rock formations around the lake, with Balance Rock standing out against the horizon. But as captivating as it was, reality set in: it was time to make our way back to the parking lot, back to where the journey had started. It was in that moment, turning around to face the long stretch ahead, that I realized something profound: being able to see the destination from afar doesn’t make the journey easier. In fact, it can make it feel even more daunting. The mind has a funny way of fixating on how far away a goal seems, overshadowing any sense of progress along the way.

On the path in, the winding trail kept us grounded in the present, with no view of the destination to steal our focus. We knew the trail’s distance, knew it would lead us to the lake, and trusted that each step brought us closer—even if we couldn’t see the endpoint. That unseen goal, hidden around twists and bends, allowed us to focus on the here and now, on the steady movement forward.

The Blue Trail, by contrast, made the goal visible almost the entire way back. And that visibility, as subtle as it sounds, changed the experience entirely. Seeing the end point stretched out ahead made every step feel like a reminder of how much farther there was to go, even as we were actively closing the distance. The clarity of the path didn’t bring us comfort—it created an illusion that the goal was slipping further away, not inching closer.

Finding Profound Lessons on an Ordinary Trail

Coming to this realization reminded me, of all things, of Admiral Jim Stockdale’s experience in captivity during the Vietnam War. No analogy is perfect, but there’s something about the “Stockdale Paradox” that aligns with this small, non-life-threatening adventure.

Admiral Stockdale, as the highest-ranking U.S. military officer held at the infamous “Hanoi Hilton,” endured unimaginable conditions for eight years. Tortured repeatedly and stripped of any rights or timeline for release, Stockdale faced every day with a clear understanding of his grim circumstances. Yet, amid that bleakness, he never lost faith—not only in his eventual freedom but in his ability to transform this experience into something meaningful. He embodied a powerful psychological duality: he accepted the brutal facts of his reality, but he also maintained unwavering faith in his ultimate triumph. This balance became known as the Stockdale Paradox.

On my hike, I was reminded of this paradox as I gazed out at the distant parking lot, the endpoint of my journey. Knowing how far away the goal was, and seeing it stretch out in front of me, wasn’t encouraging—it made each step feel longer, the distance seemingly unchanging. I knew exactly where I was headed, yet that clarity made every step feel like a reminder of just how far I still had to go. On the way in, with the lake hidden around each bend, the journey felt immersive. Every turn on the winding path was its own small achievement, reminding me that progress often happens in increments, even when the destination is obscured. Without a clear view of the endpoint, I focused only on moving forward, trusting that each step would eventually bring me to the lake.

Stockdale’s wisdom resonates here: while he couldn’t see a defined end to his suffering, he faced each day, each brutal fact, without letting go of his faith in the bigger picture. The optimists who expected to be released by Christmas, then Easter, eventually died from disappointment. Stockdale’s resilience came from confronting reality without losing sight of a higher purpose—something he would not trade, even in retrospect. For him, it was not about hoping for a specific end date but about a deeper commitment to survive and transform his ordeal.

This same duality played out on the trail that day, albeit on a much smaller scale. Sometimes in life, as with that long, clear path on the Blue Trail, we see our goals and convince ourselves that it should be easier. Yet, the clarity of the goal itself can become a burden, distracting us from the progress we’re making with each step. Stockdale’s words are a reminder: facing each moment honestly, yet never giving up faith in the final outcome, is the real path forward. Like that journey back to the parking lot, the road to anything meaningful will have its uncomfortably long stretches. The trick is to keep moving, recognizing both the distance and the progress. As Stockdale said, "You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be."