There’s something sacred about beginning a journey by simply stopping.
Before boots hit the trail at Yankee Hat, surrounded by sweeping grasslands and the rugged silhouette of the Brindabella Mountains, we paused. Just for a moment. Long enough to breathe deeply, to set aside the noise and pace of everyday life, and to become present again—present to God, to one another, and to the beauty of Creation around us.
This idea of stillness has been sitting with us lately, especially through Psalm 46:10 reflected on in a recent Trail Chapel blog: Can we stop and be still? It’s a simple question, but one that feels increasingly countercultural. And yet, standing there at the trailhead, it felt not only possible—but necessary.
As we began the hike, it quickly became clear that the landscape itself was inviting us into that stillness. Recent rains had transformed the area. What might usually be dry and muted was now alive—lush greens stretching across the plains, the air carrying that fresh, earthy scent that only comes after rain. Creation felt renewed, and in many ways, so did we.
At the halfway point, we found a natural place to stop beneath a rock overhang. This wasn’t just a convenient rest spot—it was a place layered with history. First Nations people had gathered here long before us, and their presence remains visible through their artwork carefully preserved on the underside of the rock. Sitting there, sharing lunch, we took time to quietly observe and appreciate their creativity. We were reminded that we are part of a much larger story written by our Creator.
The journey back held its own quiet surprises. Kangaroos dotted the landscape, as they so often do in this region, but it was a more unexpected encounter that drew our attention—a solitary dingo, its flame-orange coat vivid against the green hillside. We watched as it moved calmly up toward a shaded spot, settling in to rest and eat. There was no rush, no urgency—just a quiet rhythm of life unfolding in its own time. It felt, in many ways, like a reflection of what we were learning ourselves.
Even the drive home became part of the experience. The road wound its way through mountains and native forests, opening out into rolling pasturelands, each turn offering something new to take in. It was hard not to notice the beauty when we had spent the day learning how to slow down.
This adventure wasn’t about distance covered or time spent. It was about presence. About rediscovering the invitation to walk with God—not in a hurry, but in step with Him. To notice. To listen. To be still.
And in that stillness, we found something deeply life-giving.
