Wander in the Woods

Today feels bright and clear. The sun is out. The sky is blue. The mountains and trees washed clean by yesterday’s rumbling, rolling parade of thunderstorms. I can feel the pull of the pine tree forests on something deep within the middle of me.

I’m looking forward to donning my backpack, putting on my new hiking sandals, and heading out into the brisk weather. I’m going to soak up all the coolness the White Mountains have to share and carry it back with me into the Valley. I’m hoping it can sustain me until the 110-degree-plus days relinquish their hold on the desert floor.

Less Baggage, More Breath

Today, I’m looking forward to feeling lighter, faster. I have less weight to carry—less baggage, both seen and unseen—to bring along with me wherever I go. I’m just about at the end of my second 90-Day Challenge. This one was bumpier and more inconsistent than the first, but just as helpful in pointing out what to keep and what to let go of as I head into this next phase of life.

Over the past six months, I’ve lost almost 25 pounds, lowered my blood pressure significantly, let go of so much crap (literally and figuratively), and found so much more space—inside my head, within my life, and in my heart. I feel a level of peacefulness I’ve spent much of my life looking for.

A Well-Timed Escape

I planned this annual trip into the pines a little later in the year than usual, and it hit at the perfect time. My youngest is going back to school (we both survived the summer with him home), my second 90-day challenge is coming to a close, and I’m standing at this natural inflection point in my life. (I turn 50 next July!) It’s the perfect time to begin imagining what I want for my future.

This cute little one-room cabin in Greer is my favorite place to cocoon and reflect. To hike and rest. To relax all by myself, where no one knows me and no one wants to engage beyond a wave or a “What can I get you?” at one of the few local restaurants I can walk to.

This trip is about deciding what’s next.

This hike, my reset button.

So, I’m heading into the woods to wander. To find peace.

To find a little more of me.

The World Slows Down

For a while, the only sound I can hear is silence. Then, the chirp-squeak of the northern flicker. The soft flutter of aspen leaves in the breeze. And, far off in the distance, a rumble—trucks. F-150s with diesel engines, climbing the muddy track that intersects the Butler Canyon Trail I’m on.

And after they leave, I find a magical spot—water trickling over small boulders, a tiny creek warbling through the thicket, black-eyed Susans gently bobbing in the breeze. A worn-out wooden plank helps me cross without getting my feet wet.

The flowers have grown as tall as me, brushing the top of my head as I walk. Nodding, as if to greet me. Eye to eye.

By now, I’ve lost all track of time. My AllTrails app is keeping track of the important stuff—like whether I’m still on the right path.

Wandering into Wonder

Climbing again toward the horizon, my breath harsh in my ears, empty space and dried grass spread out around me. I love hiking up here where the landscape shifts moment to moment. Tiny ponderosa pines are growing everywhere.

A flash of blue catches my eye—a Steller’s jay hops from tree to tree, its iridescent wings shockingly bright against the muted earth tones of the mountain.

I make my way back down the side of the mountain, carefully picking my way through thick piles of deadfall. Pausing every few steps to watch, to listen, to breathe. The colors in the distance—browns, yellows, and rusts—hint at the edge of fall. It’s still summer here, but just barely.

I Hike to Slow Down

I don’t hike for exercise or to burn carbs—not even to get my heart rate up. I stop too often and pause too long. I’m here to slow down. To notice. To take it all in: a squirrel scampering across a log, the hum of trucks on a distant road, the light gilding the pine needles as the sun crests the ridge.

A black-and-white woodpecker knocks against a nearby tree. I spot him among the branches, poking at the bark, before he darts off—too quick for my camera.

I haven’t told you yet what it smells like out here…

Pine needles.

That warm, vanilla scent that intensifies as the sun heats the bark of the ponderosa pines.

It’s my favorite.

The air is fresh and clean. I won’t smell exhaust until I hit the blacktop again. For now, it’s just… perfect.

A Little Magic in the Mundane

A tiny bug has landed on my phone, hitching a ride as I meander. I keep my phone out, letting it tag along on its own mini adventure.

Behind me, the soft click and slide of rocks as my feet shift them. Voices—workers shouting from below. The crunch of gravel beneath their tires. The clang of metal on metal. They’re building something I can’t quite see from up here.

Instead, I see two chipmunks just off the trail. Their little tails flicking as they forage.

Storm clouds gather behind me—thick and gray, climbing the sky as I time my descent. A confused cricket chirps in the sudden dimness. I cross another softly trickling stream and soon find myself back where two paths diverged.

It’s just starting to rain. What a beautiful hour it’s been. Next time, I think I’ll wander longer. Go further. But for now, I’m on the blacktop, heading back “home” to my little cabin.

I feel relaxed. Happy. Calm. So, I’m doing this thing… wanna come?