Echo Pond, Lake Placid, NY

Imagine the most perfect possible summer day. Then soften the breeze even more. Cool the sun just a bit. And remove the bugs. That’s what this day felt like. The day my kid and I almost fell off a mountain.

It would be our first mountain hike together with an actual summit. We’d woken up early, packed our snacks, donned our gear, and bounced happily to the trailhead. We had two choices: Ascend gradually via a moderate route, or get to the top quickly via a more difficult route.

This cautious mother chose the former. At least, that was the intent.

The arrow on the trail marker seemed to be pointing to the left. Or…was it? I made an executive decision. I immediately regretted my decision.

The terrain was quite manageable, but then suddenly seemed to quickly bend, like a blanket as it’s flipped and spread across fresh sheets. And then, I saw the ropes—the only way to make it up such an incline.

“What do we do, Mom?”

Every inch of me wanted to turn around, so I did — for a split second. Because in that moment, the descent backward may as well have been a vertical drop. I knew full well going back wasn’t an option.

”Well, if we want to get to the top, we’d have to use these ropes to pull ourselves up. Or, we can try to get back down from here and…”

”Well, let’s go!” my son said flatly, cutting off my hesitation and bounding ahead of me. He grabbed the rope and began to climb. This decision was being made for me.

”OK,” I said. “I’m right behind you.”

Not that I wanted to be. But I was. Of course I was: Me, my wildly pounding heart, and a solid stone of self-doubt in my stomach that I desperately needed to toss. Because no way I’d let my son climb alone.

He climbed with purpose. If he harbored any fear, it was either easy to hide, or expertly channeled into the reach of his skinny pipe iron arms and the magnetic pull of his feet. I followed, in awe, and so inspired by this being that I had made as he came into his own just a few steps ahead.

He reached the end of the rope, assured his footing, and broke into a trot.

“I can see the top!” he exclaimed. I pulled myself across the finish line of the rope’s end, and followed him to the summit of Cobble Hill.

We cheered. We jumped up and down. We’d just climbed a mountain!

Cobble Hill is hardly a mountain by the standards of the Great Range that stretches just beyond.

But in that moment in time, it was my mountain. Our mountain. And my son taught me how to turn it into a hill. He didn’t judge, or act superior — he saw the challenge in front of us, very plainly said, “let’s go!” — and then, lead the way.

We enjoyed the leisurely trail I’d originally hoped to take on the way down. And when we came upon Echo Pond on the way out, he insisted on taking a picture of me.

And I think that’s when he showed me the kind of person I aspire to be: a person who helps people figure out how to turn their mountains into hills, then celebrates them on the other side of the climb.

Black Mountain, Lake George, NY

The sun is just rising. I am gazing across placid waters, at a mountain I have yet to climb.

That mountain is so far away. Menacing. Insurmountable. Staring me down with a stoic gaze that hurls every possible discouragement across the lake.

The darkness is beginning to seep in. And suddenly, everything about this entire place feels like one gigantic joke.

The atmosphere is a clear, brilliant blue, but the air feels like angry hands striking my bare skin. The lake is so clam it shines like freshly blown glass. Yet one slip, and the frigid waters would kill me in minutes. That mountain in the distance isn’t even rated “difficult” — but like an Everest-sized bully, it silently taunts and discourages.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why am I even here? I can’t hack this. I was so stupid to think I could.

The darkness is unrelenting in its pursuit of your spirit. Some days are going to be better than others. Some worse. For me, it shows up as unexplainable anxiety, unfounded self-doubt, and unwarranted anger — seemingly out of nowhere. I snap at people for small inconveniences. I bail on things I intended to do. I stew over things I cannot control. And I’m good at hiding it, which in and of itself is a big reason this cycle hasn’t stopped entirely.

No one’s bad day is exactly the same. But what should be the same, is a desire to do something about it.

If you use therapy, or prescription drugs — or both — to make it through the bad days, then you should know you are leaps and bounds ahead of others when it comes to understanding what you need.

If you cry, if you stay in bed, if you take a mental health day — then you should know you are leaps and bounds ahead of others when it comes to understanding what you need.

Understanding what you need is a big chunk of the battle.

I will climb this mountain. It wasn’t happening that day. It might not happen tomorrow. But it will happen. I will look down at my feet, make sure they’re planted securely, and I will propel myself forward, one step at a time.

I want you to try to do the same, when the darkness takes over. Do what you need to do. Quiet the doubting voices. Look down at your feet, and just move them forward. Just move them forward.

Show that mountain you’re coming for it.

Sleeping Beauty Mountain, Lake George, NY

Hiking is not glamorous. It does not command attention. When stripped of fancy gear and heartening backstory, it’s just placing one foot in front of the other, in solitude, ascending, at the expense of your strength, time, and energy.

Should you make it to the top, the work is done only for a moment. There’s a bigger picture to take in and process. Sometimes it’s hidden in cloud, or obstructed by trees. Sometimes its immense, beautiful complexity is impossible to capture.

You can’t always stay long enough to let it sink in, unless you’re willing to make the journey back down to the details of the dirt in darkness. Making peace with that probability can sometimes be more difficult than the climb.

The descent can feel more like leaving home than returning. There’s a fluttering of accomplishment in your gut, with an aching in your mind to remember the bigger perspective.

You won’t remember everything, which is why you will return. One foot in front of the other. Older, wiser, smarter. Searching for the bigger picture, trying to connect how the little details of the dirt come together, and what they’re all supposed to mean — hoping to remember as much as possible before it’s over.

You’ll be alone. But others will be there alone, too. They will help you remember, with a kind word, a smile, a photo to commemorate the moment. Alone together, on a shared journey, blending back into the details of the dirt.

In these times, I am grateful to hiking for being both a respite from daily life, and its closest metaphor. I hope to learn as much as I can from the experiences it provides, and the people who share in it with me.

One foot in front of the other, friends.

Mirror Lake, Lake Placid, NY

This is Mirror Lake. It was one of my father's favorite places. And now, it’s mine.

Of all the tiny traits and passions I’ve inhereted from him, this is one of my favorites. Incidentally, so is my love of photography.

He used to love getting up early to walk around the lake when we would vacation here as a family. Back then, I didn't understand why he'd want to be awake, and outside, while everyone else was sleeping.

My family now returns to Mirror Lake around the same time every year, and that time also happens to coincide with his birthday. When I realized this, I felt it quite likely arranged from the beyond.

The morning I took this photo, I woke up early, and snuck out of our hotel room while everyone else still slept. I took a nice leisurely run around the lake, then slowed down to take pictures.

It's hard to capture perfectly in a photo, how this place feels.

The crisp mountain air, magical clouds rolling over the peaks, pristine water quietly tumbling by. And my family, sleeping safely, not too far away.

Back then, I didn't understand why Dad would want to be awake, and outside. But I do now.

Balsam Lake Mountain, Hardenburgh, NY

I can do quite a few things fairly well. Botany is not one of them. My houseplants can attest. Case in point: I have no idea what kind of plant this is. A reverse Google search turned up the term “birch family.” So, OK. Let’s go with that.

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Indian Kill Nature Preserve, Glenville, NY

Forest ambience is magic. Each patchwork texture of the backcountry filters the sun in its own way, cloaking the earth’s alchemy in a quilt of light and shadow. And in turn, it cloaks you — Filling your eyes, warming your skin, perfuming the air with lightly baking bark and bright green oxygen.

I miss those days this time of year, when the earth is frozen, the trees bare, and the sun blinding as it reflects off the snow — if the sun’s out at all.

But I won’t just stay home and wait for the forest to be just as I might prefer it.

I’d miss the purples and blues of a sub-zero sky. I’d miss the gentle flurries. I’d miss how the snow crunches beneath my feet, and how it nearly buries the trees as you make your way to a summit.

I’ve got to find the good in these days.

“But why not just stay home where it’s safe and comforting until it’s warm again?” you might ask. And I’d understand if you did.

Well, because…”safe and comforting” is not the place where growth happens. Out there is. Just like those trees, and plants, and fungi, and forest animals. Everything grows out there. And to grow on the inside, you’ve got to get outside. Out of that comfort zone.

Find the good, even when conditions are less than ideal. That forest magic will be back before you know it.

The Pinnacle, Bolton Landing, NY

Ever start on the trail before dawn? Congratulations! Apparently you’re insane.

I’ve ventured into the wilderness ahead of sunrise twice. I was alone the first time. Just before the sun comes up, everything is so unsettlingly quiet and still, it feels like the trees have decided to suffocate you at a key moment on which they’ve all agreed. And they’re all just holding their breath…waiting.

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Balsam Lake Mountain, Hardenburgh, NY

Shoulder season brings an unsettling quiet to the forest. The leaves that just days ago set their landscapes ablaze with color are withered, detached, and decomposing in the freezing mud. The trees are bare, the old ones falling, no longer able to dress the gray, naked mountains behind them. The threat of snow hangs in a heavy, cold stone air.

I felt the weight of it, making my way up the mountain that day.

With little more than 48 hours to go before winter’s official start, a storm the day before had entombed the already sleeping trees in a blanket of ice.

And that’s when it happened: As the clouds dissipated, the sun set every icy branch alight, like a million frozen fireflies.

That’s what I’d wanted to capture. It didn’t quite work out that way.

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Sanders Preserve, Schenectady, NY

Sit gently on the forest floor, and all the small details grow.

Ferns become jungles. Puddles are lakes. Simple trickles of runoff explode into violent torrents. Get lost in the little forest floor details long enough, and you’ll almost start to misunderstand what you’re seeing.

It kind of blew my mind when I learned how some of the destruction scenes in The “Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers” were actually small scale models the filmmakers toppled like stacks of children’s blocks. The river that razed Isengard to the ground was actually a moderate stream of water released on a tiny wooden replica. I’m still equal parts deceived and impressed.

Magnifying what’s small can be good in so many ways, as sometimes the small things deserve their day.

It can also make you stuck in a place that’s not nearly as big as it seems.

It’s exhausting, when every puddle is a lake, every little runoff a grand rapid. I used to often make a big deal out of small things, especially if it challenged my point of view or sense of justice. I did so not out of superiority or pride, but out of anxiety and fear.

If you don’t think you can handle really big stuff, you grasp for what little you think you can, and try to make it bigger.

When the small things start to grow too large, it might mean you’ve stayed in one place for too long.

It’s time to get up off the forest floor, and move on.

Blenheim Covered Bridge, Schoharie County, NY

The Blenheim Covered Bridge leads to nowhere.

Hurricane Irene destroyed the original structure, sweeping pieces of the relic more than 30 feet down Schoharie Creek.

The original bridge cost $6,000 to build. The new bridge, propped 15 feet above where it originally sat to avoid floodwaters of the future, cost $7 million to complete. Quite the pricetag for a bridge with no mass use.

If only we built more bridges like these in our own lives.

When I visited this bridge with a friend — quite by accident, I might add, because I didn’t even give it a glance until she pointed it out — I respected the history, but I’ll admit, I struggled to see the point. But as I remember walking lightly across the grains of the new wood, watching the water rush by below, it occurs to me:

The Blenheim Covered Bridge is forgiveness.

Someone you love has hurt you deeply. That bridge you’d built just for them, leading straight into your soul, is crumbled. It stings to think of all the time and strength you’d spent building that bridge in the first place, only for them to torch it to the ground.

I know how this feels, all too well. And as someone who spent too much time kicking around the rubble, let me give some unsolicited advice.

You’ve got to rebuild the bridge.

Not for them. For you.

You need a Blenheim Bridge jutting proudly from your heart. New, strong, flood-protected, leading to nowhere the person who inspired the reconstruction can ever go.

Because forgiveness is a bridge you build that leads to a place only you can create. It’s a peaceful place, just for you, where you’re safe from the flood of that other person’s bad behavior. They can’t see it, or find it. They don’t have to know it’s there — in fact, it’s better if they don’t.

Forgiveness is for you and no one else. You’re the point. That’s your Blenheim Bridge. And your peace is on the other side.

Lake Bonita, near Corinth, NY

Bodies of water are the alien planets among us.

We cannot live or breathe in them. They sometimes host predators that could harm or kill us. Yet congruently, research shows that closeness to bodies of water can improve our mental health and wellbeing.

As someone who loves to find water bodies when she hikes, I can tell you it not only can improve mental wellbeing — it absolutely does.

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Deer Leap Trail

The first hike of 2022. No views. No sunshine. No warmth. Mashed potato snow. Rocks peeking through the melt. Could I gain a foothold? Maybe. Maybe not.

It was the perfect way to start the year.

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Edgecomb Pond, Bolton Landing, NY

It took me a long, long time to make peace with the fact that occasional unfinished business doesn’t implode the universe.

It finally happened when faced with a choice between finishing a route, or ruining the direction of someone else’s day.

My son and I had decided to hike a moderate mountain. Or really, I’d decided — he’d agreed to come along. About one mile in, it became clear he wasn't enjoying himself. I kept positive and encouraged him to press on.

By mile two, as the mud crept up his ankles and the incline increased, he began to get nervous. Still, I encouraged him to persevere. Because after all, we should always finish what we start, right?

About 500 feet from the summit, he full-on panicked.

I'd gone too far. Yet, I was so close.

I so wanted to summit, and take pictures, and share this moment in nature with him. He wanted to turn around and go home.

But he never said so. Still, the look of fear on his face said a lot. He was afraid he would fall, or get hurt — or worse, disappoint me.

In that moment, I needed to stop, zoom out a bit, and ask myself: What's really most important to me here -- summitting? Making the desired outcome in my head a reality? Or spending quality time with my child? What was the point here?

The mountain would always be there. This quality time with my child would not. He could always come back one week, one year, 10 years from now, and finish this mountain. And he could either do so with a good memory of me, or a bad one.

Admittedly, I was disappointed for a minute. Like I said, I really did want to summit. But I ultimately decided not to do so at the expense of our quality time. So I gave him a big hug, told him it was OK, and that we were going to turn around and go home.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure," I replied, a mere 500 feet from the alleged goal.

We all pay for accomplishments. Use the right currency.

I deal with anxiety. It can get the better of me, but not so much in a way that I’m prevented from doing things. On the contrary: I can become much too focused on doing ALL the things. Accomplishing all the tasks. Checking all the boxes.

In many ways, that can be good. But not if it means dipping into the till of time and attention meant for what matters to me.

Get out a pen and paper, and make a list of who and what you value most.

(And make sure YOU are on that list.)

When all the things start to show up, and you're feeling overwhelmed, take out that list, and remember what it is you're here for. It helps to put everything into perspective, shift our minds toward who and what we truly value in this life, and achieve without sacrificing what matters.

The entire way down the mountain, we jumped rocks, we laughed at the mud on our pants, and we talked about Minecraft mods. We didn't make it to the summit. But we made a wonderful memory.

Now that’s what I’d call an accomplishment.

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