Standing at an elevation of almost 12,000 feet, near the edge of a high, rocky pass in the Eastern Sierras, I felt fully alive. Taking in the stark landscape below, moonlike barren hills with round sapphire lakes in their craters, I realized that this steely, adventurous woman is who I am supposed to be, who I was, actually, before being domesticated by the duties of caring for four young children.
The wind whipped around me, breathing life after the steep switchbacks through sunbaked scree left me wet with sweat. The path to the top was a narrow trail scratched out of the steep escarpment. On the way up, my friends were scattered at intervals ahead and behind, each of us digging into our own private grit, step after crunching step at a time.
It was July of the difficult pandemic year of 2020, when I took a backpacking trip with nine other women. Nine other mothers, in fact we had 27 children among us. I was the old lady of the group at 46 years old, and some of the women were more than a decade younger than me. We arrived at this endeavor in all stages of readiness. It had been 20 years since I last wore my pack, but I had done this before. For others, perhaps half of the group, this was their inaugural adventure, their first commitment to a high-altitude test of endurance.
We camped near the trail the night before, double-checked our packs, and woke at dawn to get a start before the sun could beat us up. We took a picture of ourselves at the trailhead, all fresh and nervous. I wondered if I would get altitude sickness—I never had before—but already I felt a headache tightening around my temples.
This particular area was a dry part of the Sierras, so there were no mosquitos which was lovely, but not much tree cover either. The trail was hot and exposed, and despite being white with sunblock, I felt like my arms were going to burn.
By the end of the first hour, I was keeping pace with two other women, both experienced backpackers. Sometimes we just huffed and puffed, and I listened to the sound of my own breath. But sometimes we could talk. I barely knew them, so we shared our flaws, naturally, and what we’ve learned over the years through our professions or personality profiles, what we thought of the Enneagram, and what it had to say about us. We did what women do; we dug deep.
Over the next three days, I hiked nearly 30 miles with these women. We went up and over three high passes and camped two nights at a lake. We lost and found trails, shared tents, and swam in our skivvies. And I realized, I could get back to who I used to be before motherhood reprioritized my time and energy.
The thing is, my children are wonderful. My husband is my biggest supporter. This season of sacrifice is just that—a season. I don’t blame anyone or regret my choices or think that I am no longer compatible with motherhood or marriage, none of this stuff of the mid-life crisis. Yet I grasped something anew, standing on the rocky edge of Glen Pass. I understood that this season of serving could have caesuras, little breaks for me to reconnect with what lights me up inside, pauses where I could prepare for the next verse with fresh joy.
This is who I am. Still. I needed to remember that.
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