In my 20s, hiking and backpacking were just things I thought I’d try. At first, it was about following along with my friends—particularly a boy. It was about the experience—the thrill of trying something new, the adventure, the views, and maybe even the satisfaction of checking a trail off a list. I never thought it would bring me all that it did, both physically and mentally.

Physically, hiking taught me my own strength. With every trek, I felt my endurance build. The once-daunting inclines became more manageable, my breathing steadier. Carrying a heavy pack up a steep incline, feeling the burn in my legs but refusing to stop—those moments changed my perspective. There was no quitting when the only way back was forward. The soreness the next day was a reminder of what I had accomplished, proof that my body was capable of more than I had ever given it credit for.

Mentally, hiking gave me a kind of clarity I hadn’t known I needed. It tested my patience, my resilience, and my ability to stay present.

Backpacking to Dunanda Falls was one of those experiences that tested me in every way. The hike started off great—the middle of summer, light sprinkles of rain cooling us off. But soon, the real challenge began. Water crossings forced us to hoist our packs above our heads and wade through. Then came the storm—thunder and lightning crackling above as we found ourselves in the middle of an open meadow, the last place you want to be in a storm. We made it through, only to be met with thick, slippery mud from the fresh rain.

And the mosquitoes. They were relentless, biting through clothes, even getting between my glasses lenses and my eyes. Between slipping in the mud and fighting off the swarms, I may have shed a tear. But despite it all—the trials, the tribulations, the bushwhacking—the outcome was worth it. The falls were breathtaking, a perfect reward for the struggle. Beneath them, a natural hot spring in the river became our haven, where we stripped down and soaked, washing away the exhaustion of the journey.

And then, there was the toilet with the best view I’ve ever seen. A porta-potty, miles from civilization, perched on a mountainside overlooking pure, untouched beauty.

That hike, like so many others, taught me to work through tough situations, to stay calm, and to take one step at a time. I was always with at least one other person, but there were moments when things didn’t go according to plan.

Like hiking Larch Mountain in mesh tennis shoes, with no flashlights. We met the peak at sunset—magnificent, awe-inspiring—but then had to hike back through snow, over rivers on sketchy bridges, in the dark, with nothing to guide us. That was my first long hike.

Or my first backpacking trip in Yellowstone, where the snowmelt had turned the trail into a raging river. That night, a storm rolled in. If you don’t know, Yellowstone has seen many fires, leaving behind dead trees just waiting to fall. We had no choice but to set up camp in the middle of bear country, in the snow, in the storm—outside of a designated campsite. Unable to hang our packs, we tossed them far away from camp. We sat around the fire, drying (and melting) our shoes. No marshmallows—just us, our gear, and some good conversation. That night, as the rain fell, so did the trees.

We hiked back in the morning, never reaching our destination. But while we didn’t make it, the experience was unforgettable.

That summer gave me so many memories—some good, some bad—but it reminded me just how breathtaking the world is. Hiking stripped things down to the essentials. It was just me, my thoughts, and the next step. Some hikes were meditative, others were a battle with my own mind, pushing past the “I can’t” thoughts. But every single time, I came out stronger.

It taught me resilience, to pay attention to details, patience, and the importance of conversation with those around me. It taught me to push through discomfort because the reward was always worth it—especially when the view was magnificent. Hiking to places unseen by most people in the world was humbling. Seeing landscapes untouched by man—lush forests draped in moss, rushing rivers, towering trees—felt like perfection. It also made me realize that I’m just an ant in the world, a small part of something so much greater.

There was also a deeper connection—not just with nature, but with myself. When my grandpa was alive, he had a deep love for capturing nature through his camera lens. I never understood why he’d stop to photograph a simple tree, a patch of moss, or the way light filtered through the leaves. But then I started hiking, and suddenly, I got it. I found myself pausing to take in the intricate details of the world around me—framing shots of golden sunrises, misty valleys, and the endless textures of the wilderness. It wasn’t just about the photo; it was about seeing, appreciating, and preserving a fleeting moment of beauty. Watching the sunrise from a mountaintop, feeling the wind cut through me on an exposed ridge, or sitting by a campfire after a long day—those were the moments where I felt the most present. No distractions, no rush. Just me, fully there, taking it all in.

Now, in my mid-30s, hiking has taken a backseat to the demands of life. The trails that once called to me so frequently have become an occasional escape rather than a regular part of my routine. But I miss it—the clarity, the exhilaration, the way my body felt strong and capable with every step. Life is busier, and unfortunately, hiking hasn’t been a priority in a long time. But I want that to change. I want to lace up my boots more often, to seek out the trails that once filled me with so much joy and perspective. More than anything, I want my son to experience that same sense of wonder—the peacefulness of a quiet forest, the healing power of fresh air, the sense of accomplishment that comes from reaching a summit after a tough climb.

I didn’t come from an outdoorsy family. We played outside and went to the river, but that was about it. I want my son to know the feeling of standing on a mountain peak, of pushing through discomfort, of finding beauty in the smallest details of nature.

Hiking in my 20s wasn’t just about reaching summits. It was about learning what I could endure, what I could appreciate, and how much I could grow. It was about pushing limits, finding peace, and realizing that sometimes, the best thing you can do is just keep moving forward.

If you’re interested in seeing some more of my pictures from my hiking journeys I’d be glad to share them. What have been your hiking experiences?