Admitting When Youre Wrong

I was walking the other day when I noticed a new, muddy section on the Whispering Pines trail. I’d been so sure the old route was still passable after the spring thaw, but the rain had softened the ground beneath the fallen cedar. I’d told two hikers just yesterday, "No worries, the path’s solid," while adjusting my own pack. I’d been wrong.

The next morning, a young couple arrived, soaked and frustrated. They’d slipped on the mud, the man twisting his ankle badly. They’d been heading for the waterfall, a spot I’d personally recommended as "perfect for a quiet morning." I’d been wrong. I’d been certain. I’d not only misjudged the trail but dismissed the changing conditions, the very thing I’d spent twenty years teaching others to notice.

The aftermath was quiet, heavy. The man’s wife didn’t yell, but her eyes held a quiet accusation I couldn’t meet. "You said it was safe," she said simply. I couldn’t explain. I’d been wrong, and my certainty had made it worse. I spent days cleaning up the muddy section, my hands raw, the silence of the woods feeling like judgment. I’d failed not just the hikers, but the trust they’d placed in my knowledge.

What I learned wasn’t about being "humble" or "apologizing better." It was quieter, deeper. Admitting I was wrong isn’t a collapse—it’s a necessary shift, like a river finding a new course around a rock. My pride had been the obstacle, not the trail. Nature doesn’t apologize for a storm; it simply is. My job wasn’t to be infallible, but to be present enough to see when I was wrong, and to let that truth reshape my path. Now, when I point to a trail, I say, "It’s been wet—let’s check the footing," not "It’s fine." The land teaches that.

— Ellen Ferguson, patient as the land