Like many years prior, I was going to usher in the new year from the most excellent party central of my well-worn Big Agnes Fly Creek UL2 tent, or maybe even while cowboy camping somewhere on the desert floor. Coyote yips would serve as noisemakers, the stars above as sparklers, with a bit of whiskey in my apple cider to cheer the passage of time.

Instead, I spent the day nervously watching my spectacularly stoned kitty Eddie Cat Halen wander around my apartment in a post-surgery stupor, now eight teeth (and perhaps a few brain cells) lighter. I not only felt like the Certified Worst Human on Earth, but also felt disappointed that I was landlocked in the city, when all I wanted was to roam free in the wild.

My friend Brooke broke my sad-sack spell with an invite to join her family for a retro New Year’s Eve luau, so I donned my brightest island wear, baked a pineapple upside-down cake, and nudged myself into some form of reluctant optimism. We watched Blue Hawaii and Forgetting Sarah Marshall, marveled at a rather ingenious Christmas-tree-turned-volcano, tipped back a few mai tais, and feasted like royalty. Through the relaxed joyfulness of it all, I was reminded of the utter power of friendship to lift you out of the dumps.

Still, I knew that I needed to be outside on New Year’s Day, even if its eve had been salvaged. If the power of friendship rings strong in my life, so, too, does the power of the outdoors. For me, being outside is as essential as food and water, as necessary as love. In fact, it is love.

***

I woke early to watch the sunrise from a ridgeline below the impressive and somewhat chaotic crowds gathered to do the same at the Griffith Park Observatory. I sat down and hugged my knees to my chest against the brisk air. Tucked between a few bushes, I was beautifully alone. I watched the city yawn and stretch and come alive, first in muted pastels, then with more vibrant colors. I, too, felt alive – awash in optimism about the day, the year, my life.

Shedding any residual disappointment over the dissolution of best laid plans, I drove to my friend Pamela’s house and we rode together into the San Gabriel Mountains. Everything else dropped away as we climbed through the chaparral foothills into the pine-studded high country, the sky a stunning blue above the clouds. We made our way up the southeast ridge of Winston Peak, punching through fresh snow, pulsating with happiness. Near the summit, we laid out a tarp, drank apple cider, shared snacks, and let flow a cavalcade of thank-yous:

“Thank you for inviting me out today!”
“Thank you for coming with me!”
“Thank you for everything!”

Sometimes nowhere does gratitude flow so strong as it does in the mountains with good people.

We strapped on our snowshoes for the descent, and prolonged our return by exploring the slopes, taking photos, and enjoying the views all around – from Mount Waterman to the south to the Mojave Desert and distant Tehachapi Mountains to the northwest. It was perfect. While I might not have celebrated the new year in a tent as hoped, I still did so surrounded by beauty, buoyed by the fresh-aired optimism of a day in the mountains, my soul alive with love for what has been and what is to come.

At least, I can’t.

I grunted up miles of switchbacks, tracking thunderheads as they flexed their fluffy might maybe a ridge or two over. Now above tree line, a judgment call grounded in so much alpine weather-watching leads me to the pass. I let out a small victory cry, then begin speed walking down the other side, a familiar rumble filling the very same air I struggle to inhale.

Puff, puff, puff. Hustle, hustle, hustle.

I drop down, then curve around several small lakes until I spot a clearing for my tent. Thunder booms directly overhead and then the rain starts, gently for a second, then it pours. Racing to set up my shelter, I use a rock to hastily pound in stakes until I strike my middle finger instead. Blood spurts out in a small geyser, splattering on my tent and the rocks around me. I have to laugh. Don’t I? A small offering for my presence here, same as any other sweat and tears I’ve sprinkled across these high places.

***

There are so many struggles we face in life; sometimes moving through the mountains is the one struggle I get to choose.

***

I spend several days in the familiar embrace of these mountains. Taking photos, writing – ostensibly doing fieldwork for my book, but also doing work on myself. I come, too, for that Sierran salve, spread thick around my soul like a layer of cosmic insulation.

When it finally comes time to leave, I’m up before dawn, drawing out the usual morning puttering. I wait for early light to strike the Painted Lady, sitting as striated prow above Upper Rae Lake, but it doesn’t happen, so I start walking. Fiery calves carry me up to Glen Pass, which I have all to myself. Perched on its knife-edge, I drink some water and smile, surveying the indescribable beauty all around, wishing I could share it with every person I’ve ever met. My heart soars, even as it thumps in double time.

On to my second pass of the day, I lurch along the ascent with waning energy. I know that only part of it is physical; the other part is the melancholy that comes with leaving. Still, I pop in a piece of hard candy and let the scenery distract until I round the corner on 11,709’ and look up as I hear my name – actually, both my given name and my trail name:

“Shawnté?”

“Rustic?”

The melancholy slips away as it’s replaced by surprise and a broad smile. My mountain tribe. People I barely know, really, but am bonded to by the interminable grip of granite and dirt. We laugh and I let loose a large, bellowing holler of pure joy. I barely reject an invitation to join them in climbing a nearby peak, not just because my body has already given its all for the day, but also because I’m already higher than the summit.

Before we part ways, we all survey the sky, where late morning clouds have started congregating maybe a ridge or two over. Judgment calls are made. One party heads up, another heads down.

Mother Nature will hold her fury for a few hours at least. But when she chooses to unleash once more, it will be as it always is. The struggle is always worth it.

Headlamps and lanterns flickered around for a while like fat fireflies, and then it was just the darkness and me, only the snowmelt rumble of the nearby Merced for company. There were hundreds of people scattered around in the pines, snoring or laughing or telling ghost stories with flashlights shoved under their chins, but I was so beautifully alone. To feel that way in what is arguably Mother Nature’s Times Square was ridiculous and wonderful.

Landing alongside a meadow with a moonlit view of Yosemite Falls, I felt compelled to gawk at the granite for a while, then leaned back and spent some time with the stars, maybe made a wish, a secret between me and the cosmos.

Thanks for listening, Universe. I’ll try to keep listening to you, too.

For a moment, I was just another Valley creature, my ears attuned to every scritch and squeak of nocturnal rustling, my lungs flush with that cool, pine-scented air. I sucked in as much as I could…just a little more…a little more…like some basement stoner, hoping to trap some inside, always and forever.

After some time tucked into that sweet spot, I uncurled and shuffled back to camp, reluctant steps like peas pushed around a plate. But still it came, that soft mourning that always sneaks up as I prepare to leave behind the wild places that make me feel so feral and free.

A few more deep breaths.

Yosemite: lover, friend, sister, confidant, all-seeing mystic with a direct conduit to my soul.

I’ll be back soon.

It starts innocently at first, a glance out the car window or a set of concentric lines on a map leading like a hypnosis spiral to an X or small triangle or interesting name that draws you in. What’s up there? you wonder. How do I get there? How does it feel?

For some reason, this particular peak starts invading your thoughts and dictating your dreams. You begin to casually research routes and calendar dates, a process that can take days or weeks or months or years. You thumb through guidebooks and lose hours falling through a series of online black holes. You pepper the chosen one into conversations, now on a first-name basis with Whitney or Longs or Denali or Kili or Fitz, if you’re cheeky.

You obsess.

Your friends recognize and sigh with acceptance at the familiar distance in your eyes that signals a new alpine crush. Apologies are offered, but they – and you – know that once the process begins, you need to see it through. And so plans are made, gear is sorted, perhaps partners are selected, and then you’re traveling with baited breath to Where It Begins.

Whether you’re standing at the trailhead in trail runners or hiking boots or approach shoes, a kaleidoscope of butterflies flutter somewhere inside of you, tightening into a soft ball that settles in maybe your stomach or throat. It’s not unusual to let loose a giant smile, joyous howl, or small bit of vomit at this point.

Then, communion. Each step is part of the whole; the summit is never truly the endgame. Through whatever path appears – vibrant meadows, raging streams, sagebrushed deserts, shaded forests, suncupped snow – your senses burst alive, your muscles and motivation pushing you ever upward. There are no work deadlines, no lawns to mow, no bills to pay; your only obligation is the path ahead.

And finally, the top. You celebrate with a whoop or a jump or maybe emotion catches your tongue for a hovering moment.

Actually – maybe you summit, maybe you don’t. Maybe you buy the maps and guidebooks, but never even reach the trailhead. And that’s okay. Maybe this place visits your dreams and dances through your thoughts because it is beautiful and it represents the triumph of nature, and possibly yourself. A symbol of what is and what could be.

To connect with a mountain, then, is not just about ascending a peak – and it’s definitely not about conquering it.

To love a mountain is to simply make a place for it to burn bright deep within your soul.