The Mountain That Helped Me Breathe Again

Looking south towards Elpoca Mountain in the distance

Two days after finishing the hardest chapter of my book... the chapter about my mom’s death, I found myself lacing up my boots for the biggest hike I’ve attempted in years… maybe even decades. Something inside me needed it. After writing that chapter, after being cracked open again by grief, I felt this pull to climb something massive. Something that would demand everything from me. Something that could push me past the place where loss had left me.

And this hike did exactly that.

For two relentless hours, the trail climbed straight up... steep, icy, unyielding. The kind of grade where your calves and thighs burn, your breath gets loud, and quitting would be easy. But my body surprised me. I handled the climb better than I ever expected. Micro-spikes were non-negotiable on the ice, but even with the conditions, I moved steadily, slowly but powerfully. I passed a couple half my age early on, assuming they’d catch me… but they never did.

It felt like my body already knew: “You’ve carried heavier things than this. You can do hard things.”

The view of Mount Barham when you get on the ridge

Breaking Over the Ridge

When I finally broke over the ridgeline, the world opened up in a way that stopped me cold and literally took my breath away. The mountains in front of me were… unreal. Majestic. Larger than imagination. Snow-dusted peaks glowing in the sun. Upper and Lower Kananaskis Lakes shimmering below on the other side. A 360-degree panorama of the Rockies that felt like stepping into a cathedral built by the earth itself.

It was the kind of beauty that makes your eyes sting. That cracks you open in the best way. That makes you whisper thank you without even realizing it. And then repeating it...

That last kilometre along the ridge felt like walking through pure magic... effortless, peaceful, breathtaking. I found myself hugging Denali every few minutes when I stopped to take photos, overwhelmed with gratitude that she was by my side and we were on top of the world. She even smiled... she always does in these moments, this dog who somehow feels like a piece of my heart walking outside my body.

My amazing Denali and i at the summit

A Moment Meant to be Shared

I didn’t think much about my book while I stood on that summit. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to exist in that moment... fully, gratefully, alive.

Well… except for one thought. Or rather, one person.

A friend of mine was celebrating his birthday the next day, someone who seems to truly understand and appreciate the mountains the way I do. I wanted to make him a video from the summit so he could wake up on his birthday and see that view through my eyes. It wasn’t perfect. I stumbled over my words. I laughed. I sounded like a woman fully gobsmacked by the earth. LOL.

But it was real. It was me, in paradise, thinking of someone who gets me.

To me, that’s the point of moments like this. To feel blessed and share that blessing with the people who matter.

My best friend usually hikes with me, but she’d never be able to do this particular climb or perhaps she could but truly has no desire, understandably. So I took photos for her, the kind you can’t really mess up in a place like this.

And the whole time, I kept thinking: I wish everyone I knew could see what I’m seeing.

Kananaskis Lakes below

And that’s when I thought of my boys. My kids do get me in a way only a few people do. I’ve taken both my sons hiking their whole lives. Now that they’re teenagers with worlds of their own, they may not share my obsession with the mountains, but they understand my need for them. They’ve grown up with these peaks in their backyard, unlike me or my friend who grew up back east, but they still know this is where their mom breathes. Even if they don’t feel the same fire for the mountains, they understand my passion, and that means everything.

My family never got to hike mountains nor did they appreciate them the way I do. This is my paradise, and I often wish I could show it to them... my mom, my brother, my dad, so they could see me in this element, living in a world that heals me over and over again.

Leaving the summit was hard. I had to tear myself away from views that looked like they belonged in another world.

And then came the descent... punishing, steep, the kind that makes your legs ache and shake uncontrollably. My muscles were screaming long before I reached the bottom. Two days later, they still are.

But honestly? I loved it.

Hard climbs are one thing. Hard descents? They teach you something else entirely.

They remind you that there’s always a price for beauty… but the beauty is totally worth it.

Heading back down the ridgeline before making the steep descent

What the Mountains Gave Me

That day gave me everything I needed, and everything I didn’t know I still needed.

I finished the hardest chapter of my book. I climbed a mountain that pushed me past my limits. I cried at views so beautiful they cracked me open. I stood in silence with Denali, grateful beyond measure. I shared the moment with someone special through a simple birthday video. I shared the photos with the people I love.

And through it all, I felt something I hadn’t felt in that magnitude in a long time: Love. In every possible direction.

In my last blog I wrote: “Death breaks us open, yes… but love is what pours out.”

The night before this hike, grief broke me open again. But on the mountain, all I felt was love, love for the earth, for the people I carry, for the people I trust, for the journey I’m still on.

Nature heals me. It strengthens me. It motivates me. It inspires me. It reminds me that after the darkest nights, the light is always brighter.

And on that ridge, bathed in sun and snow and silence, I had the realization once again: This is why I climb... because the mountains always help me find the love that loss tried to take.