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Since my last blog post on October 31, life has been moving at an unexpected pace. Yes, the Mountaineers Service Award was a once-in-a-lifetime honor, but I didn’t anticipate what would follow. In early November, I received four other awards, including Trip Reporter of the Year, Key Leader, Super Volunteer, and Hike Leader of the Year from the Seattle Hiking Committee. While I’m celebrating, staying humble, and listening inward, I’m learning deeper truths about myself in this moment.

You’d think I’d be walking on air—and part of me absolutely has been. The other part?

Embarrassed. Maybe even bashful. I shared such feelings with my Mountaineers Magazine editor. She said “Thanks for letting us celebrate you.” I replied, “I’d prefer with me, rather than just me.”

There’s something surreal about receiving award after award when you know how many hardworking volunteers are also worthy. A piece of me wished the recognition could have been spread out over the year, rather than delivered in one heaping, overwhelming moment. It was a lot to process.

But the truth is: the awards aren’t the anchor. The hikes and hikers who join me are. I shared the good news with my hikers, several of whom were on multiple CHS hikes this summer. I make sure each hiker hears I cannot do what I do, nor earn the recognition I get, without THEM signing up, getting up, showing up, and fully participating. Unsung heroes are everywhere. We ALL deserve to be seen, recognized, appreciated.

Where Connection Lives: Middle Fork Snoqualmie and Rattlesnake: Grand Prospect

On the Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie, the river roared and tumbled in the background, and the group—mostly hikers I already knew—felt like family wandering through a living cathedral of green. All summer I led Conditioning for Hiking Series (CHS) folks. Returning to Mountaineers club hikes — open to anyone willing to get up at 0-dark:30 and reach the trailhead at dawn — feels like coming home.

A week later at Rattlesnake’s Grand Prospect, we caught a glimpse of a fleeting rainbow flashing directly overhead. Silky spider webs backlit by sun stopped me in my tracks. In both cases, the people mattered just as much as the scenery.

This is what grounds me.
It keeps me saying yes to Tuesday hike leads through the end of January.
This is where community continues to deepen in steady, meaningful ways.

And somewhere on those trails, something inside clicked: I’ve locked in my hike leading process. Now I am ready to mentor others. I’m also ready to lead on new-to-me trails — without having to scout ahead of time.

That realization felt like its own quiet award—one with no certificate or applause, but a warm certainty I could feel deep inside.

The Unexpected Gift of Plein Air: Seeing Deeply Again

Amid all this movement, the multiverse handed me a completely different kind of joy: a plein air Volunteer Appreciation painting event (through the Washington Trails Association) with my daughter. Three hours at Meadowdale Beach Park, sitting still, seeing deeply, and exploring the light. We laughed. We experimented with color and perspective. And we created without expectation – most of us, anyway.

A four-year-old boy, fearless with his paintbrush, became my motivation to not strive for perfection, but to simply play. Be a kid again. Hold that beginner’s mind. Try something completely new, just for the thrill of it, knowing full well that my daughter, sitting right next to me, was far more talented and skilled than I ever will be. It doesn’t matter. We are all creative. And we can create art just as much as we can create our lives.

It was lovely and unusual precisely because it wasn’t structured.
It reminded me of what I miss about writing fiction—the flow, the freedom, the unlimited creativity. Hiking provides new trails, new people, new challenges, but the roles and rhythms are now familiar. Painting cracked open that sense of discovery again.

Leonard Cohen’s lines from his 1992 Anthem, returned once again: “There is a crack, a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in.”

A Whisper Rising: My Own Rhythm

And yet, in the midst of the celebrations, the hikes, the painting, and the community connections, I’ve felt a subtle whisper getting stronger:

I want my own rhythm again.

Leading hikes means walking at the pace of the group. Growing a business with my husband means maintaining “go go go” power mode. While both bring different growth and connection opportunities, neither quite provides the solitude I crave—the chance to move through the woods completely alone, by feel and personal need, rather than responsibility, expectation, or speed.

A solo hike, right now, would feel blissful. Like breathing room.
A way to tune back into myself and my rhythm.
A recalibration.

And a celebration for all I’ve done in the past twelve months.

I admit that in a season of so much recognition and togetherness, what I feel I’m yearning for most is one day—just one—to be completely alone in the mountains. Just me, myself, and I.

Humility in a Heavy World

Part of why all of this feels complicated is because the world at large feels negative and heavy. I sometimes feel hesitant to share any good news at all, worried it might sound tone-deaf or self-absorbed.

But this week a client and hiking buddy said something that resonated with me:

“Be giddy. This is a huge moment for you—something you worked toward all year, all your life. You earned every one of those awards. If we can’t celebrate these moments when they come, what’s the point?”

She’s right. Joy doesn’t diminish the world’s pain. It coexists with it. If I want to be a beacon of light for others, if “Mountains heal” is the message I want to share with the world, then I need to get out of my own way, be that beacon, and shine brightly. Another hiker said I have an “aura about me” — just like the rainbow that formed above our heads in that second. A sign? You bet.

And sometimes, joy is the thing that carries us forward.

Listening Inward: What I’m Learning Right Now

This season is teaching me three things:

1. Authenticity matters more than image.
   Sharing joy doesn’t require bragging. Sharing honestly requires heart.
2. I need to honor whispered yearnings.
   For me, that means carving out one solo hike in the next few weeks, just to reconnect with my own pace, spirit, and inner wisdom.
3. Growth often arrives when we slow down and truly listen.
   Painting reminded me of that. So did embarrassment. So does heeding those inner voices of Spirit, Multiverse, whatever you call your higher power.

Three Questions for You

As we approach the season of Thanksgiving, reflect with me:

1. What small or large win could you allow yourself to celebrate—without any apology?
2. Where are you craving your own rhythm again? What needs to change for you to take it back?
3. What whispered need is asking for your attention?

If we listen closely, these subtle messages often lead us exactly where we need to go. In the words of John Muir (1872), “The mountains are calling, and I must go.”