Caught In the Wild Bog: Lessons On Resilience From Dolly Sods Wilderness In West Virginia
A muddy, wild hike in Dolly Sods Wilderness becomes a lesson on navigating personal growth, creative blocks, and life’s uncertainties.
Last week, my parents, my sister, and I decided to go for a hike in Dolly Sods Wilderness in Tucker County, West Virginia.
For those who aren’t from my neck of the woods, Dolly Sods is an almost-18,000 acre wilderness area of the Monongahela National Forest here in West Virginia. I grew up in West Virginia and currently live just a short drive from Dolly Sods—and even to me, this place remains largely mysterious and unexplored.
Deep in the woods of the Mountain State, Dolly Sods boasts breathtaking bogs, heath, and miles and miles of backcountry. While there are marked trails, you won’t find many (if any?) paved paths or organized boardwalks.
It’s about as wild as it gets.
Exploring Dolly Sods Wilderness
We set off on a Saturday morning, fixed on completing a moderate 6.5-mile loop around Dobbin Grade, Raven Ridge, and Bear Rocks.
The first half of the hike was lovely. We wandered through clusters of shady pines and waxy rhododendron thicket, allowing ourselves to be dazzled by the first wildflowers popping through still-chilly soil.
And then… we entered the clearing. A scrubby, boggy area with few trees and even fewer dry spots.
The clearing was a different story altogether. The ground sloshed beneath our boots, broad and marshy, slowing us down as we stepped gingerly over the larger puddles.
My sister and I skipped ahead, chatting amongst ourselves. It was easy to ignore the dropping temperature. The damp breeze. The angry-looking clouds overhead.
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When the Trail Turns to Mud
In minutes, we went from a temperate day and clear path… to hair matted to our cheeks and the gut-punch realization that our 'trail' had become a river.
(I wish I were exaggerating. I promise you, I am not.)
Our feet searched in vain for dry spots. Wet socks became bare feet, which turned to wading through knee-high water as we desperately tried to keep track of our “trail.”
It was terrifying and exhilarating.
Mind flashing to a friend who was struck by lightning in this area years ago, then to the bog bodies I saw on a trip to Ireland a few years ago (click that link if you dare)...
I was certain that either the sky or the earth would open up and swallow us whole after any given step.
And… I also laughed harder than I have in months. Maybe years.
We cackled. We swore. We carried on, one plodding step after another.
By the end, we were all sopping wet, absolutely filthy, and DELIGHTED when the river turned to creek bed, to craggy rock path, to semi-solid hiking trail and high ground once more.
My sister and I sang folk tunes at the tops of our lungs all the way back to the car, to ward off bears and distract ourselves from our waterlogged feet.
Never in all my life have I been happier to walk uphill.
Resilience & Agility Along Life’s Winding Path
And that’s how it goes isn’t it? In life, in love, in art… sometimes the path ahead just disappears.
You’re doing everything “right,” when suddenly, your solid ground turns to water. The way forward becomes unclear. Progress slows.
Your feet are soaked. Your bones are cold. You seriously question whether there’s a way through—and if so, what might wait for you on the other side.
You have a choice:
To turn back… or to wade through.
What that hike reminded me is this: progress and momentum are rarely graceful or linear.
I’ve seen this in my life too many times to count. All of my most beautiful and significant seasons of growth, evolution, and creation have begun with confusion, murkiness, heartache, and questioning.
Sometimes the only way through stuckness is to get a little wet.
To let it be messy.
To let yourself curse and laugh and cry all at once, and still keep going.
Because the trail does come back. Or you carve a new one.
One way or another, you press on—stronger, steadier, and more certain of your own resilience than you were before.
You don’t have to do it perfectly. You just have to keep moving.
With muddy boots and an open heart,
Cassidy
P.S. If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also appreciate this poem, “The Journey” by Mary Oliver.
It’s one I frequently come back to during seasons of change and uncertainty:
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
P.P.S. If it’s been a while since you felt fully alive in this way—join me for my upcoming Wildly Creative artist retreat!
June 5-8, we’ll convene in the Monongahela National Forest in a cozy cabin by the river.
Here, you’ll reconnect to your sense of purpose, reignite your inspiration, and come away ready to step into your full power and potential as a creator.
Your experience includes lodging, delicious locally-sourced food, curated workshops, nature excursions, and much more.
(And I solemnly swear not to take you on any wild goose chase wilderness walks. xx)
We have just two spots remaining. Reserve your room here, or email cassidydickens@lyriccreative.co for more information.