Sometimes ideas are better left ideas.

Now all you drag alongs victimized by bad ideas be advised that all the blame for an idea gone wrong doesn’t fall solely on the individual who brought forth the idea. Those who unquestionably go along with the idea and fail to foresee the various errors or consequences associated with the idea share some of the blame…some.

The following account is mostly true and somewhat accurate, as sort of remembered by an unquestioning drag along victim of an idea. Only the name of the perpetrator of the ill-conceived idea has been changed to protect her from further scorn, ridicule and threats of bodily harm.

“I’ve always wanted to hike the Mickelson Trail,” mused Wilhelmina. “You know, you get a sticker when you complete the entire hike…oh, how wonderful it would be to have that sticker.” A simple statement. That is the first red flag to be aware of in the quest against being an innocent or ignorant victim of bad ideas. A simple statement such as this is often the messenger of a bad idea. In this situation it is perfectly acceptable and encouraged to go against the saying, “Don’t kill the messenger.”

For those who may not know, the Mickelson Trail is a 109-mile trail that follows an old railway grade through the Black Hills from Edgemont to Deadwood. The trail is marked with mile markers and has several trailheads that break the trail into segments of varying distances. “The first segment is only 16.2 miles. We can do that can’t we?” Wilhelmina pondered aloud within earshot of the ignorant and soon to be blister footed.

Always one for a challenge, always one for a hike, and always one to overlook the makings of a bad idea until it’s too late, I took the bait and proclaimed with certainty, “Sure…l6.2 miles is nothing,” I heard myself saying before myself could evaluate what I was saying.

So it was said, so it was agreed upon, so it goes. High noon, a balmy, cloudless, 92 degree day, perfect for hiking if you’re a two humped camel or one that was brought up relying on two humped camels as a major mode of transportation.

Days like this are rote with warnings, red flags and other divine signs suggesting you abort the ill-conceived idea and proceed to a barstool perch where a more thorough investigation into the matter can be ascertained. I’ve spent the better part of my life blissfully ignoring warnings, red flags and divine signs. A genetic malady with no known cure that comes in handy for someone that needs quasi-interesting, quasi-entertaining things to write about.

So, with all signs ignored we shuffled on towards the gates of hell, conveniently located on the western edge of Edgemont next to the Cheyenne River, a museum, and a Coke machine. Like moths to a flame, limping, battered, sun stroked moths, we gimped into Edgemont and fell in a stiff, sore, blistered heap in the slim shadow of Mickelson Trail mile marker 0.

“The coveted Mickelson Trail sticker is a few miles closer,” Wilhelmina thought to herself lying in bed that night with the scent of Silvadene wafting from the sun backed shins of her husband. Her husband, oh let’s call him Steve, lies in the fetal position quietly recalling a laundry list of past ideas he’s succumbed to. Too dehydrated to muster a tear, Steve fades into a fitful sleep tormented by mile markers and stickers.