There is a bird singing somewhere far above the path.  It can't be seen, hidden in the mass of colorful leaves that hang overhead,  but we know it is there because its voice floats down from the tops of the trees and settles along our trail.  Far to the right of our course, a river ambles along, adding quiet murmurings to the soundtrack of our season.  The ground is still soft this time of year, but the first few whispers of winter have begun to freeze the edges of our muddy footprints.  The sun sets early these days, but a few splotches of natural light still highlight the texture of the ground as we run along in the chilly evening air.  

To most passersby, it is a standard stretch of forest.  To us, it is much more. It is the land we run, over, around, and through.  It is the environment in which we test ourselves and push each other, and over the years, we have discovered every inch of it.  When my cross-country teammates and I run along -- brushing against each others' shoulders, listening to one another's labored breathing, silently commiserating -- I think the path feels a little like home.  However, more than anything, it feels like a challenge.  The sounds that keep us company every day -- the bird, the brook, the breathing -- are not at all intimidating or hostile.  Yet still they force me to answer, "Are you coming along with your teammates? Coming along to your future?"  There are moments when I feel like saying no.  There are difficult races, grueling workouts, and rainy days that cause me to question my desire to keep moving forward.  But it is empowering and exhilarating to know that with every step, I answer, “Yes.”