I settled into a house nestled in the Alaska Chugach foothills as a very unhealthy relationship was ending. The final 6 months of the relationship left me in the darkest mental health space I had ever encountered along with a fractured sense of self and loss of self-esteem. Gone was the girl who spent all her 20s racing endurance mountain bikes, following her curiosity down a trail, jumping and figuring it out on the way down. The cage that had been built around me seemed to extend to a physical manifestation of where and how far I could venture out. I knew in theory that the trails ran right behind my house, but I didn’t dare find out, the wilderness masquerading for the darkness that I found myself in and worried that if I ended up too far out, I would simply cease to exist, convinced that I would not be able to figure out how to get home. I can’t say why for certain, other than in that context and timeframe that I had spent in that relationship it felt that to face more uncertainty in the unknown of a trail proved too much of a hurdle for me to jump at that point. In the days, weeks, and months after the relationship ended the cage fell away, replaced by a nest of nurturing housemates. The further I seemed to get away from the relationship the farther I seemed to be able to go from the house.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened, maybe a few months after I had found some stability, and I met a friend to hike the backside of Nearpoint, a trail nearby. I was more than self-conscious of my ability as a hiker, something that manifested in my relationship when I was told I was too slow to be able to go or I would simply be left to hike by myself, unable or maybe more unwilling to try and keep up. For the record, my friends never made a comment of my inability to hike – but wounds can cut deep. After that hike a burst of creativity that had sat dormant for so long popped in my mind, what if I ran here from the house? I went home and google mapped it, hmmm yeah it looks like it connects and surely I can figure it out. A spark, a light, of venturing into the unknown. I ran the two miles on the Tank Trail to the Nearpoint trailhead only checking once to make sure I was on the right track. I got to the backside, climbing up, using the trees to pull myself up the steeper sections, jogging the slight inclines, and making it to the top. I stood there looking around and really taking it in. I had never noticed the trail running farther back from the top. I wondered how much we see only when we are willing to finally see it. I stood there realizing Wolverine, another peak was just up to the right, hmmmmm. I turned around and headed back home, running mostly the whole way while my brain cooked up longer slogs. The next week I went from the house up to Nearpoint and then over to Wolverine before coming back down and looping around to the house. In those 13 miles my mind had shifted, the calling to explore was back, where would this trail go, how could I link this together. Scrambling up the backside of Wolverine that day, I stood there realizing how many more places I had to go, how many more I wanted to go. Only seven months prior I thought my story had been written, my ending coming soon, all the trails had been taken, no other way out except to die. In that moment on the top of the peak I realized how close it felt to losing it all and was immediately wrapped in gratitude for hanging on, for surviving. I stood in awe of all that mother nature had assembled and stood in awe of all my body and mind had been through.

I ran back home with a level of excitement that had been missing for years, feeling a rush of accomplishment. Here, look at this route I put together, telling my roommates and anyone else that would hear. In the months that followed I found myself on more and more adventures that started and ended at home. Some remained solo pursuits, finding a ride up to Arctic Valley so I could ski home over Powerline Pass, not starting till 2pm and arriving home just after midnight. I cut off the Arctic to Indian route and headed up towards Powerline Pass, putting in some haphazard route and using a bunch of alders to help me ascend, pulling myself up on the branches to get to the route I had in mind. I thought of them as kindred spirits thanking them for the support as I climbed higher. I skirted by Homicide Peak in the cloak of darkness and gave thanks for the stability, my avy beacon in my backpack as I knew if anything slid it would likely be a body recovery– but it was no longer a thought of not wanting to be alive but instead a feeling that when death arrives, she will find me alive. As I was coming down Powerline Pass, opting to not ski because of the potential of kicking off an avalanche and being completely by myself, I down climb an outcropping of rocks. As I held on there was a moment, a hesitation pooled around anxiety, what if I can’t do this, what if this is it. I took a deep breath, reminding myself of all the tangled, dark spots I had seen myself through. I looked down into the valley and the warm glow that illuminated Anchorage eight miles away, finding comfort in the community that I had built and the trails that had never led me astray. I looked at my footing and my potential route, took a breath and placed my foot on the next hold. I’ve seen myself through far darker patches than skiing home at 11pm at night, I thought.

More friends tacked on to the affectionately known, “dumb long slogs” – setting up car shuttles so we could go a little farther each time. I tried not to balk or downplay when people who I felt were far more experienced than me would ask to be my partner on a route or objective, they are picking me for a reason, they know my abilities, as in my relationship I had always felt like a last resort as a partner. It helped me find a steadiness in knowing my value, in what I bring to the table, and to never settle for a less than feeling when embarking on an adventure. Each outing taught me more about myself and the parts that had stayed hidden for so long for safekeeping finally felt safe enough to re-emerge. Those that embarked on these adventures with me showed me patience, kindness, and the occasional pointer when I would ask how exactly I should take this line. All the same things that I had found on the trails that surrounded me and gave me the confidence to exist in a space that felt foreign for so long.

When the opportunity to buy a house came up that would keep me on the trail network, I immediately said yes, and figured it all out after that. Working remote in global health security and on east coast hours often means that an early starting time means I have afternoons to explore my backyard. I had gained my confidence back in jumping and figuring out the landing on the way down, in taking a route to find out what I was made of, I was no longer afraid of what I would encounter on the trail or in my mind. I have since continued going out from my house into the front range, running up to Flat Top and back home, getting rides up to Glen Alps Parking Lot to save some of myself for the run back. Through it all the trails have supported me, challenged me to grow and the growth that exists in the mountains gave me a way to hold space for my growth as a human– the days that fall short of the objectives, leaning into the progressions, the changes, the trails that I’ve come to love that once destroyed me– the spaces I inhabit that no longer scare me– the solitude that no longer comes at the expense of peace. On the trail I’m reminded of all the different versions of me that have existed on it and the trail now brings certainty to my life, a familiarity, the mile markers invite reminders in, this rock feature, this signpost.

Someone once told me that peace and stability come from within– returning to the trail often reminds me of that– that what will remain after I’m gone– that Mother Nature while providing comfort also responds to the elements both anthropocentric and natural, doing what she needs to do for safekeeping. Even after all the times I’ve run a certain loop or nearby trail, I still find myself in awe of all that surrounds me. And such is life, the different versions of me all exist inside, much as they do on the trail. I can hold space for them all and meet each one with compassion while reminding myself that calmness can be found in the uncertainty, in what’s down the next bend, underneath the snow, the world can fall away, and I can still find grounding on the trails that have brought me home.