Love from the Trail
Dear Beautiful Friends,
Last week, as a birthday gift to myself, I decided to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a while: Share some paragraphs and poems directly from my journal. An unfiltered, less crafted post. Then life got a little busier than I expected, and I didn’t find the time to strain over my unfortunate handwriting and type it into the laptop. So here, as a belated birthday gift from me to you and to myself, are some observations and notes and musings and poems from an overnight birthday backpacking adventure in the Bitterroot Mountains May 25-26.
Enjoy!
If you appreciate these free weekly posts and want to offer support but feel a little allergic to signing up for a paid subscription here, you can also make a donation at the Buy Me a Coffee (or Tea!) site or through Venmo (terrifnichols). And you can always do the free subscription thing here to receive these writings in your inbox.
Monday, May 25, 2026 – 6:29 pm, on the shore of Big Creek Lake
Sun is shining through clouds above Stormy Pass, illuminating a rapidly melting snow field and fueling at least three waterfalls down the granite cliffs on the other side of the lake, one of which is massive and, I imagine, would be tough to cross on that part of the trail. Which I didn’t visit, because 9.5 miles of not-so-well-maintained trail was enough for me today, on this second backpacking trip of the year.
So funny how, over and over again, I do some version of this: Plan to backpack just a few miles to the Blodgett waterfall and spend the afternoon reading and writing and relaxing, then change my mind because what if that trail is crowded or that one spot by the waterfall is taken and Hey! I could hike 10 miles up to a lake that will probably offer more solitude – and more challenging hiking … and I somehow can’t say no to a longer hike …
I’ll never know what actually happened up Blodgett, and I do kind of wish I’d had more time around camp (like I would’ve if I’d done a shorter hike), but overall I’m pleased with my decision. I do indeed have the whole place to myself, as far as humans go. And I took my time on the way up, stopping to admire the Cedars. (I forgot there were Cedars up here!) And the Trillium and Glacier Lilies and Fairy Slipper Orchids and Phlox. And the Larch and Yew and Grand Fir and Spruce and Doug Fir.
And so much water! Rushing through Big Creek and their tributaries. Making it impossible not to get my feet wet in places, but I didn’t mind. Icy foot-plunges were a good preview of my frigid dip in the lake after I arrived and set up the tent. (Fourth Spring lake plunge so far this year!) Of course that’s exactly when the wind picked up and the clouds thickened. And of course now the sun is shining on me and the rocks, so I keep layering and de-layering, layering and de-layering.
Which reminds me of the beautiful Spring weather throughout the hike. About halfway in, I watched dark clouds gather, both down in the valley and up toward the lake. But there were patches of blue all around, and it looked like any rain would pass quickly. So confident in this (and hungry) was I that I sat down to eat half a bag of potato chips even as a few scattered drops of water came down. A little further up the trail, after my snack, it actually sprinkled: A stunning, gauzy curtain through the larch and lodgepole pines, and still there was blue sky here and there, so there must’ve been a rainbow somewhere that I didn’t see.
I did see two snakes on the way up, and 10 humans heading downstream and out. And I didn’t think to bring underwear, which is making me a little nervous lest I have an urgent morning poop after eating an entire bag of potato chips with avocado oil over the course of the day. (Because I will surely finish the bag after dinner.)
As I often do on my birthday, I’ve felt incredible gratitude today, simply for still being alive. This time it hit me first while eating breakfast, still at home, as I realized I’ve now outlived my biological mom, Bev, by 18 years. And I’m only four years away from out-living my second mom, Sherry. I have no preview of what I’ll look like when I grow old. I have just a few photos of Bev, forever frozen at age 30 or 31. The last time I saw my dad, he was just 50. I’ve never considered this before, but how strange.
So much of my gratitude for simply being alive at age 49 comes from all the times I wished myself dead, and all the times I said, in my teens and 20s, “Carpe diem! I’d better do all the things now, because I could drop dead at age 31 just like my mom did!” (and secretly wanted that to happen.) I remember waking up on my 32nd birthday and looking in the mirror, stunned. Touching my face. Whispering, “I’m still alive.” In the lead-up to that birthday, I did sometimes wonder if I’d jinxed myself, and I found myself quite surprised at how happy I was that I hadn’t.
After meditation this morning I practiced a short version of the Five Earth Touchings, and that added to my gratitude. So much so that I had tears in my eyes for much of breakfast, feeling my ancestors with me, sharing the delicious and abundant oatmeal.
Stepping onto the trail, I tried something new, inspired by Robin Wall Kimmerer and something someone shared at the recent Flathead Lake retreat with Open Way. I introduced myself, thanked the trees and the Earth for their presence, and vowed to do as little harm as possible and to share more joy than suffering along the hike. I did the same when I reached this campsite. I’ve always greeted the trees, but it’s surprising to me that I’ve never fully introduced myself and my intentions before.
Here, in no particular order, are some of the places my mind focused on as I walked for five hours from the trailhead to this beautiful campsite above some boulders sticking out into the lake:
Imagining walking with Bev, and growing my relationship with her.
Imagining walking with 3-year-old Terri, and 11-year-old Terri. Bold, curious, expansive, just before fear and depression became frequent companions.
Random songs and scenes from Heated Rivalry.
Plans for future backpacking trips.
Come back, Dear Terri, come back! This moment is all we have. And what a beautiful moment!
Ooooo! Snake! Orchid! Rain falling through Larch and Lodgepole Pines and sunlight! So beautiful!
The new Larch needles are soooooo soooooft …
It is getting harder for my body to contort into all the shapes and push my whole weight up with one arm and one leg like I need to do to get over all these downed trees … but I can still do it!
Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude – for my life, my body, and all the people and conditions who’ve brought me right to this moment.
Now the sunlight is making the illusion (is it an illusion??) of a huge, semi-circular crack in the snow below Stormy Pass. And the shape is not shifting with the clouds. What could be causing that?
And those tiny birds – swallows? – threet, threet, threeting and skimming the surface of the water. I want to stay on this rock until the sun dips below the ridge, but I don’t know if I can stay awake that long. It’ll probably be another hour, and it’s already 7:30 pm! So late! (Thanks to the thick clouds, the sun disappeared at 7:45, so I didn’t have to wait. :+)
Also gratitude for my feet, who have retained a lot of the sole toughness they built up going barefoot at Deer Park and around camp on the Pacific Crest Trail – much more than I would’ve expected them to have over the winter.
I never get tired of watching storm clouds, and the swirls of rain they drop onto neighboring peaks and valleys as they make their way slowly towards me. But I do get sleepy …
Playing with the Storm
The rain is moving closer now,
from across the lake,
the clouds about to make good
on what they’ve been promising all day.
So I scramble around,
collecting from dead branches
clothes in various states of sweaty, wet, and damp,
and secure everything in the tent.
Then blue sky emerges,
with fluffy, non-threatening clouds.
The storm is gone, and I laugh.
The temperature has dropped,
but the rocks along the lakeshore are still warm under my bare feet.
So I stand and watch the sky a little longer.
Tuesday, 26 May 2026 – 5:49 am, on the shore of Big Creek Lake
Stunned by beauty yet again.
Rain on the tent last night, for the first time since Deer Park. First rain I’ve experienced backpacking since that HUGE storm in the Bob Marshall in July 2024. Clear sky this morning, and I’m thinking of Dabney, who was with me the last time I was here, in 2022, I think. Sending her love.
Slept like a rock last night among the rocks, but for the two times the Rain passed through. Lulled to sleep by the beautiful cadences of Chris LaTray’s One Sentence Journal, and the sound of that huge and distant waterfall. Awoke a little before 5 am with a very full bladder that didn’t even allow me to consider whether I had to poop, but I did. Climbed up the trail, then up some rocks, in the near dark. Found deep, rich, wet soil and apologized to the tiny plants I was about to dig up. And there was that song again from the monastery (which comes from the Gatha for Planting a Tree):
“I entrust myself, I entrust myself, to the earth, to the earth, and she entrusts herself to me.”
Pretty sure I’ll think of that for the rest of my life, anytime I’m digging a cat hole to poop in.
And now there are wispy clouds over Packbox Pass, and I’m remembering how, on the other side of that pass, Dabney and I found some of the least maintained trails I’d seen to that point, and slogged through thick brush and downed trees and then lost the trail altogether heading up toward Bear Creek Pass and actually had to use some orienteering skills, and how we eventually found our way back up and over the pass, stunning above Bryan Lake, but vowed to never trust the trails on the Idaho side of the Bitterroots again. (Though I continued to explore them on my own and continued to question my sanity each time.)
Just after I awoke this morning, eyes still closed, one hand on my heart-mind and one on my belly, I recited the Five Remembrances, which I’ve been doing most mornings. And I remembered, again, yes: “All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them. I inherit my actions of body, speech, and mind. My actions are my only true belongings. My actions are my continuation.”
One more deep breath, shared with Lodgepole Pines and Subalpine Firs. I am ready to get on the trail.
But wait!
And now the sun is shining on the snow field across the lake, and I can see clearly what wasn’t obvious last night: water is streaming in sheets down the rock nearly everywhere below those granite mountains. (And how can I leave now??) And I’m reminded of how, earlier this morning when I went to the water’s edge to rinse off my face in the cold, clear water, I slipped on these rocks, still wet from the night’s storms, and nearly fell into the lake. What a different morning that would’ve been!
Tuesday, 26 May 2026 – 3:02 pm, back at the trailhead
While looking down at my feet
A dark-brown-black, furry someone
leaps off a log along the trail ahead.
Not a skunk or a raccoon,
too big to be a squirrel. Definitely not a chipmunk.
Pine marten? Badger?
My imagination runs wild,
and I briefly curse my habit
of looking down at my feet (and the wildflowers!) as I walk.
The uncleared trail
When I first fell in love with hiking
and scrambling,
among the sandstone boulders of the Santa Ynez Mountains,
my brother came to visit,
took one look at my knees,
and asked: “How do you still have skinned knees at age 25?”
Now, on an early-season backpacking trip
in the Bitterroot Mountains
on my 49th birthday,
I hoist myself over Downed Spruce #35,
right leg and left arm
lifting my body and backpack
while left leg turns,
carefully but not gracefully,
180 degrees, and …
Smack!
My knee and a sharp stob make sudden contact,
adding to the 15 other scrapes and bruises
adorning my legs.
What can I do but laugh?
How does one navigate a world
full of sharp and scratchy obstacles
without some cuts and scrapes? A little blood?
What season of life is worth living
that doesn’t leave a few scars?
I carry on,
awkwardly thrashing
while I still can,
for as long as I can,
and the next day, on the hike out,
less than a mile from the trailhead,
I pass the trail crew
heading up,
saws and axes in hand,
and I thank them for their work,
and laugh to myself again,
because of course I have chosen
the uncleared trail
just before someone else makes it a little easier.
If you appreciate these free weekly posts and want to offer support but feel a little allergic to signing up for a paid subscription here, you can also make a donation at the Buy Me a Coffee (or Tea!) site or through Venmo (terrifnichols). And you can always do the free subscription thing here to receive these writings in your inbox.