For eight days, I hiked, “camped” in tea houses, and felt closer to God than I had in a long time. I started my second to last day earlier than the guide, a little contrary to his opinion since there was a possible turn-off I might miss, since I seem to have trouble with left and right, north and south.
An hour into my trek I stopped for coffee and was joined on the patio by two young Buddhist monks. The older one assured me I was headed in the proper direction and painted a picture of the turn-out with his words. With a quick thank you I wished them luck and headed out.
Feeling better prepared, I kept my rapid pace for the next hour and then I slowed expecting to see a fork in the path around each curve I encountered.
My ears proved to be keener than my eyes. A sound much like tinkling of bells caused me to look up to see the smaller of the two monks, possibly only seven or eight years of age, sitting serenely with his legs crossed on a huge boulder.
He simply nodded his head to the right. The road less traveled perhaps, but the one I was destined to take appeared out of nowhere.
I certainly would have missed it.