My love of water started in a shaded creek, where the silver maple leaves rustled a welcoming wind and gooey, slimy mud creamily seeped around and between all of my little toes. I spent hours upon hours behind my grandpas house, barefoot, hopping rock-to-rock lazily slipping my feet into the water as I sought out nearly microscopic minnows and tadpoles. I’d catch them in buckets or sift them through my fingers, separating the crawdads as the water slid between my fingers leaving gritty sand and shiny onyx pebbles shining in the palm of my tiny hand.

The creek seemed so ginormous through my eyes then. At a time when I could only count as far as the fingers on my hands and my biggest problem was how I could get out of having to go inside when I would eventually hear my mother’s sing-songy voice echoing my name from the back patio. At eight years old the world is large and unexplored, it’s expansive and questioning and begging to be discovered. We are so lucky if we keep that as we get older, giving in to her beckons to find every secret Mother Nature has to offer.

My grandpa’s house sat nestled on acres of land with an orchard to one side that awaited our greedy hands, plucking and picking ripened apples and deep-red cherries from its branches every year. We’d wrap the berries in our shirts like bowls and run through the grass with our naked feet so that grandpa could bake them into fresh pies. Behind the orchard was the barn and stables filled to the brim in the back with hay for his few prized horses. The pasture wrapped behind and sprawled to the tree line behind the house and if I was at the furthest corner, which felt miles away, I could still hear the bell from the gazebo that still chimed that dinner was ready.

I’d slip beyond the tree line and scurry down to the creek bank, watching fractions of light break through the treetops and shine down turning the murky surfaces moss green and camel colors. I loved the way the cool water hit my ankles and gave me goosebumps. I loved the scratchy branches that would run across my skin as I made my way haphazardly through the brush to the waterline. I’d come up with twigs in my hair and my cheeks flushed from the thrill of seeking out new areas I’d never gotten to before.

My love affair with water started early. It has woven its way through every part of my life. You could say it was inevitable if you believe in the power of signs. As a Cancer, I am a water sign and in truth, I always feel pulled to it. When I’m in need, I always seek out the trails that lead me to a source of it.

Wallace J. Nichols, a marine biologist turned author has been researching and delving into his theory of the “Blue Mind“. This mindset is what he categorizes as “a mildly meditative, relaxed state that we find ourselves in when we are in, on or under water.” I know the power of nature. I know the healing and restorative powers it has and, while I always seek out waterfall trails, I never understood why beyond the fact that I aesthetically love the way a waterfall looks and the sounds they make as they gush from mountain faces or meander downstream. Nichols reminds us that “bodies of water change and stay the same simultaneously, we experience both soothing familiarity and stimulating novelty when we look at them.”  To me, that is just like people. Changing and staying the same all at the same time.

When we remove ourselves from our naturally high stress environments to remote environments that have less noise pollution, stressors and distractions, we immediately relax. Different areas in our minds are activated that correlate to calming and becoming more self-reflective. Colors like green and blue immediately soothe us and invite us to unwind. The deeper our breathing gets, the less tense our bodies are. When I get outside, I immediately become more creative. I become more introspective and connected to myself and my surroundings, I become more aware of my own state. How am I feeling? Why am I so tired? That situation really hurt me, how am I doing? I become more alert to every snapping pine needle, every rustle in the canopy over my head, every ripple in a nearby stream. I hear it all. I tune in to it all.

The “Blue Mind” triggers sensations of ease and wellbeing. I sleep to sounds of waves crashing or rain pelting the ground at night. This may sound silly, but it brings me deep, blissful sleep. Sounds bounce from ear drum to ear drum, peaceful and consistent. Why would it not bring me feelings of bliss in the wild as well? Just as unburdened as I was as a little girl, disheveled and completely content splashing about in a creek in a quiet, farm-surrounded town in Illinois. I find the same feelings of tranquility every time I pick a trail running in tandem with water that gracefully dances into pools or swimming holes beautifully seated in canyon walls, hidden in deserts that greet you so deliciously in the middle of the heat.

I encourage all of you to get out there and activate your “Blue Mind” a little more than usual and see how it feels.

It’s a scary thing, vulnerability. In every day life we are trying to sift through who truly cares about us, has our best interests at heart and won’t take what we share and judge us. As Brene Brown says, “Connection is why we’re here; it is what gives purpose and meaning to our lives. The power that connection holds in our lives was confirmed when the main concern about connection emerged as the fear of disconnection; the fear that something we have done or failed to do, something about who we are or where we come from, has made us unlovable and unworthy of connection.” 

What I have learned is how important it is, letting people into those nooks and crannies of our souls. Sometimes the ugly, dirty, dilapidated parts that have been abandoned and buried for longer than we can remember need to be seen and acknowledged the most. The wilderness has become my safe haven of letting people in. The further I trek back on a rugged trail, the more open and trusting I become. Away from city lights, busy schedules and bustling streets letting down those barred up walls isn’t such an effort, it just….happens.

One morning, I met in an apartment parking lot I had never been to, shook hands with girls I’d never met before and hopped in a strangers car to drive three and a half hours to a trail I had never heard of. Hiking with strangers sounds ludicrous doesn’t it? We all had only briefly chatted through Mtn Chicks and made a plan to go explore together in the Sierra Anchas Wilderness. I rarely turn down the opportunity to experience something new and exciting and this was surely one to add to the list.

Driving down the highway, chasing the sunrise into the morning, our conversations ebbed and flowed. From lighthearted and shallow, to goofy and embarrassing stories, the bonds began to grow roots. I looked out the window as the sleepy, small towns whirred by and couldn’t help but bookmark this moment in my mind as making new friends. Each girl was uniquely their own person, yet we all had common ground to connect over. It’s funny how we always think we won’t easily make friends with people because they must be so different from us, they must not understand us or our histories. They won’t accept us or think we are cool enough. Will I be interesting enough for these people? 

We cheat ourselves out of community when we second guess ourselves and the fact that connection blooms from sharing parts of ourselves that aren’t always the coolest or most put together.

Our tires trembled from boulder to boulder as we navigated down the rocky road to the trailhead. Our heads rocked up and down, back and forth like bobbers in the water while our laughter filled the cabin, four girls unable to contain their happiness on some discreetly marked backroad.

We parked, got out and stretched our semi-sleepy limbs, preparing for the hike up into Devil’s Chasm. Nicole’s face burst into the most eager, excited grin, “I’ve wanted to do this hike for like, a year and no one would do it with me. I had to turn back last time, I’m so excited we are doing this!” We began are ascent and even though it was only 2 miles uphill, it was intensely steep. Hanging off limbs, feeling your feet slip and slide beneath you on the loose gravel and rock, you got a taste of what Native Americans were scaling to get to their home up in the sky. We were headed to see ancient ruins and the deeper we climbed into the canyon, the more scaling we did, the more appreciation I had for the remote and serene lifestyle they must have lead.

Our trail wove eloquently up the left side of the canyon and we were raced by a tranquil flowing waterfall. It lazily trickled next to us as we took deep, rigged breaths nearby. We ducked under thick fallen trees, shimmied over others and found ginormous, splashy orange and cherry toned leaves that had fallen along our path. Sweat began to bead on my forehead, one small trail running down the bridge of my nose and rounding over and down onto the forest floor. My heart rate was up and we continued to get more and more vertical with the canyon walls. We reached a hollow, naked waterfall and saw ropes that had been left behind years before. We scaled the fall one at a time, each of us giggling and cheering the other on and they climbed into the small cubby of rock at the top.

Our conversations flowed as easily as that waterfall near our trail had. We began grazing the surfaces of deeper conversations and my heart warmed to these girls. When we let the barriers down, we become more real, more compassionate with one another and we foster unity that we are never alone in what we are facing. I learned that “cuties” were not as humanely grown as I’d thought, that fruit snack gummies were still delicious as an adult and that dog moms are the most passionate people on the planet.

The second round of ropes was not nearly as laidback as the first. The cliff became angular, more like a building face than a rock, with hardly any areas to grip on to for support. We used the ropes to gain leverage as every step gave way and slid underneath us. The loose talus rock was like sand and every limb I grabbed on to from a small yet deceivingly strong tree I prayed it would not uproot and send me toppling back down the canyon. I found myself continuously turning back, looking out at all the elevation we had gained and taking in the chasm and the vista behind it. It looked like a framed painting, the canyon walls near the vista sun-soaked and orange. The deeper the chasm got, the darker the tones of the boulders became, making the vista a lime green, ethereal looking mountain-sweep in the distance. I got lost in that view enough that I forgot I was climbing, catching myself sliding back from time to time.

I reached the flatter land near the base of the ruins first, ecstatic to have finally made it up the cliff face in one piece. I had scratches from the prickly, pointed plants and scrapes from climbing around on rocks like I was back on the playground in elementary school. I was feeling. Being. Taking it all in. Just engulfed in the experience and the girls I was sharing it with, it felt good. The kind of good that wells up in the back of your throat when you think about it and seeps into your heart. Your chest swells and you feel like it could burst. It awakes your soul. That kind of good.

The ruins were in perfect condition and walking up to it felt like time-traveling back to 1280 when this dwelling was crafted. The doors were miniature, but the rooms were homey. Exposed beams ran through the structure and peep-hole sized windows looked out onto endless rows of trees. I bent down, crawling through another door into the next room where I saw an old fire pit and then another room and another. The Salado people were known for their unique pottery and were farmers and hunter gatherers. I walked to the open door frame at the back of the dwelling and breathed in a deep, settling breath. I let it settle deep down into my lungs and closed my eyes, the magnitude of forest and canyon disappearing from sight just for a moment. This was history and I was standing in the memories and shadows of those that had come so long before me. The original explorers, the true lovers of our wild, so in tune with their environment and respectful of nature. In that instant I become so acutely aware of why I love being removed from society, why moments like this were so important and why I never wanted to stop digging into my own roots. Our Earth is so powerful, magnificent and giving. The more time I spend in nature, the more I want to cherish and nurture it right back, just as it does for me.

The rest of my group came through and I could hear their gasps, sighs and wonder-struck “wows” as they wove through each room. Taking in the hand prints in the bones of the dwelling, the views from every little window and how high up we really were. I wondered about their day to day routine. What their hunting, gathering and baking looked like. When they awoke to the sky burning every morning and had to begin trekking that same trek we had just completed, but not for fun, for survival and for food. I wondered what they thought of when they looked out at the same view I was looking out at. What did they do that they loved? How did they foster community? Probably just like this. Sitting together, telling stories, sharing food and appreciating nature. That hit me hard. This is how you build community right here. Laughing and then falling into hushed, introspective thoughts. Talking about heartbreak, dreams and goals, love and different stages of life over fruit and trail mix.

We sat on the ridge overlooking the canyon for over an hour before beginning our journey back to reality. The adventure down was much more challenging than ascending. Catching your footing on runaway dirt is nearly impossible and we all fell more times than we could count. Our lungs were full of dust, our hair and clothes covered but our eyes were on fire and our laughter was contagious. You know the kind of laughter where it comes from deep in your belly, sometimes losing sound, pricking small tears of joy from the corners of your eyes. It’s the uncontainable kind and it’s how I know something is genuine and remarkable.

Our hike down was filled with falls, laughter, exhaustion and cheers for burritos. It took us nearly five hours to complete and driving back into town for our victory burros, we sat reminiscing on what we’d just seen. When we got done I arrived back in a parking lot I hadn’t known, in a car I’d never seen, with three girls I’d never met. Strangers that became friends, friends that knew deep sides to me and had made memories that would mark me for eternity. Vulnerability had fostered friendships and I will never take for granted the power of showing all of my cards whether that is feeling lonely, scared, weak or insecure or confident, strong and fearless. I knew connection came from getting deep into the woods and not being so afraid of what other people would think, and just letting things be.

Altitude has never really been my friend. I come from a state that is relatively flat. Our idea of “mountains” are more like mole hills. Our idea of steep is walking 10 stories in a building. When I moved to Arizona nearly 5 years ago, I remember driving through northern Arizona in awe. It looked so different than what I had ever imagined the southwest would look like. I was immediately enamored. Every peak, every valley, every creek and stream, every dip and divot. I wanted to explore every inch, trek every path and explore every summit. When we drove through Flagstaff, I saw Humphrey’s Peak looming like an ogre in the darkness. It looked so scary to me. But before I even knew that mountains name I knew I wanted to conquer it. Fast forward 3 1/2 years and I had a group that was crazy enough to do it with me.

My phone lit up. Tom. Megan. Mike. A group thread going berserk planning our Humphrey’s summit. Tom had passionately been describing his desire to do the 9 mile hike for sunrise. “You mean we will start in the middle of the night?,” I asked him. I was speechless. His daring attitude and passion for pushing limits is continuously something that amazes me. “Duh! We can camp the night before, I mean if we even sleep. Last time I did it we just drove through the night and started the hike so, totally up to you guys!” I laughed to myself, “Okay, let me see what they wanna do.” After the group committed we agreed to drive up Friday evening after all of us were off work. We packed up our gear, snacks and packs to hit the road. And then we hit traffic. We rolled slowly down the 101, our anticipation making the molasses paced traffic that much more painful to bare. It took us a little longer than expected to get to Flagstaff and after stopping for dinner and extra water, we didn’t get to the base of Humphrey’s until after dark. It was nearly 10pm by the time we set up our camp, hidden in the trees right beside the trailhead.

We all snuggled up around Megan’s jet boil for sleepy time tea and some anxious jokes preparing for the hike ahead. Altitude was a big fear of mine. I had heard stories of nausea and people having to turn back because of the way it was making them feel. I didn’t want to be one of those people, especially not with a group around me. We ate a surprise dessert, each of us taking fingerfuls greedily and turned in for the mere 2 1/2 hours we had to sleep before we had planned to begin our summit. My single-person tent was on a slight hill and I awoke about an hour in slipping slowly towards the bottom in my sleeping bag. I curled up tight into a little ball for warmth and wished myself back into a light sleep for the remaining hour or so I had left. Nerves were escalating and sleep was hard to imagine, like a little kid the night before Disney World, my alarm went off but my eyes were already open. I began to situate myself, re-tie my boots, put on my layers and my beanie before unzipping my tent. I was greeted with a face full of cold, sharp air that took my breath away. “Okay, here we go,” I whispered to myself. No one else was rummaging around yet, but I could hear Tom’s alarm going off from his tent. From the flap I could hear him slightly snoring, I rustled his tent, “Come on now, let’s go!” The chainsmokers were lightly serenading him into consciousness.

Our group got packed and prepared to start on the trail, muttering about the people they’d heard hiking after we went to bed and the dog that had gone frolicking through our camp behind them. We began our hike, headlamps on, voices muted and the only sounds we could hear were each other’s breathing. I couldn’t handle the sound of my own. I put my headphones in to drown out the sound as my inhales got more sharp and loud. Music always soothed me and helped me pace my breathing. Music is a huge part of my hiking (and exercise) experience. It sets my tone, it creates a memory, it amplifies my feelings, it is embedded in every story I’ll ever have. At the start, I always like peaceful, relaxing music. It helps me breathe deeper and keep my heart rate as low as I can based on the pace.

Speaking of pace, Tom was our pace setter. His idea of “pacing” was fast….more like a power mall walker than a hike, faster than I’d expected but I had been weighting my pack and walking/hiking quite a bit. I was more prepared to keep pace with him than I’d thought. We hiked under the tree line for what felt like hours in the dark. As time went on, I could feel my chest begin to get heavier, my breathing more and more shallow and my desire to remove anything zipped up close to my throat was intense. I began to unzip my pullover and the jacket underneath even though it was close to 40 degrees outside. It helped to ease my building anxiety as oxygen availability lessened.

We would stop to snack, take drinks of water and to make sure we wouldn’t completely break away from our group. We’d joke around, look up at the flickering stars in the shadows of moonlight dancing in and out of view around the branches of hundreds and hundreds of trees. After two hours, I thought we’d never break the tree line. I was sweating, but knew I couldn’t take off my layers or my sweat would freeze, leaving me shivering and more cold than before. The hair at the base of my neck began to curl, wet on my skin. I hummed along to my music and pressed my hands to the tops of my thighs for leverage as our climb began to get steeper and steeper.

Before committing to this hike, I didn’t know how hard it was. I didn’t know it had false summits. I didn’t know what hiking in the middle of the night on hardly any sleep would feel like. I didn’t know how rewarding a sunrise from the tallest peak in Arizona would feel, but it felt like winning a medal. And not the participation kind.

We hit the tree line and I thanked God. Over half way there! In only 2 1/2 hours! We are unstoppable! Tom kept pushing forward and I followed behind at a sightly less aggressive pace with Megan, Mike and Taylor coming up the ridge line. The first switchback brought piercing cold. It hit my cheeks, the inside of my nostrils and my throat like a battering ram. I let out a gasp and let Tom know I would need more breaks. I apologized, feeling like I was holding him back. I always pride myself on holding my own and being able to keep pace at the front, but this was challenging me.

We continued to climb, hitting the first false summit. No one said anything, trying to ignore the countdown in our heads to the “Real” peak. I stopped at the crest and took a deep breath, thinking that no breath would ever be deep or full enough now. The first splashes of color were beginning to blush across the horizon. A faint tangerine and lemon watercolor began to appear. I thought of the song Tangerine by Led Zeppelin as I hiked down and swiftly back up again to the second false summit. My breathing was labored, it made me feel frantic inside, but I had no traces of nausea and for that I was grateful. Tom was halfway up the third summit, waving me on. I turned back to see headlamp lights coming up the summits. I pressed my boots into the gravel and fired my hamstrings, counting my steps as each muscle heaved forward, sore and heavy from the climb. Fuchsia was bedazzling the sky and I couldn’t help but smile. My face was frozen, the wind chill whipping at my face, but my lips turned up, elated.

We crested the last summit, seeing a headlamp in front of us for the first time. That’s it! The Summit! We made it! Under three hours and we were grinding our toes into the flesh of this mountain to see the day welcome us up close and personal. We got to the top and the wind was searing. It cut straight through our clothes to the bone. Four other groups of people were huddle at the top, one with a very nice camera, another group under a huge blanket making bourbon hot chocolate and oats. We cursed ourselves for not bringing the jet boil and copying their idea. We hooted and hollered, high on the lack of oxygen and sleep, loving the experience and the fact that we’d made it to the top. We were feeling the rush of accomplishment as the sun slow burned into eye sight. It was romantic, really. The pastel colors lavishly soaking the sky.

I sat on that mountain side, soaking up every second of this moment. Every color shift, every inch the sun rose, every little shout a friend gave out in sheer joy. I couldn’t frame this feeling into a picture. I couldn’t freeze  this moment in time, but I’ll feel those emotions forever. We all took our time, appreciating the summit in our own ways before descending. Our descent felt like it took us forever, our feet sore and bodies tired, hungry and feeling accomplished. When we got back to camp, we packed up and headed for spiked hot chocolate. We owed ourselves. We cheers-ed and clinked our cups full of warm whisky and cocoa with rosy cheeks from the wind burn and hair that looked so unkempt you had to laugh. Socks and sandals, loopy grins and memories we would all share for the rest of our lives. With every shared hike, bonds grow closer and I know, my life is so much richer because of it. Nothing will ever compare to sharing the wilderness and the struggles that come with conquering it with others.