Solo Hiking My Way to a New Life

The path through challenge unfolds one step at a time

My husband took me to wild places in Idaho few people get to see.

Terry was the only person I’ve ever known who could drive over an unpaved mountain pass in the winter.

In a sedan.

Why a sedan? It was a company car; so he frugally utilized it for fishing, mountain climbing, and exploring his beloved Idaho backcountry. He would drive as far into the wilderness as possible and then climb to the highest peak like he’d been a mountain goat in a previous life.

I have no goat in my DNA. Terry’s route up a mountain often scared the daylights out of me. Over time I grew to trust his judgment. I also bought him a Jeep and started hiking behind the rig when the road was nothing more than a game trail.

Love doesn’t cure a fear of heights. I want my boots on the ground when the trail winds along a thousand-foot drop off.

In summer conditions, I would suggest we veer off-road and drive up a seemingly gentle rise to look for wild horses or a herd of elk for me to photograph. Terry would stop and patiently explain the physics of switchback angles and falling Jeeps.

I never could quite figure out his method of risk assessment.

Every time he winked at me and asked, “I wonder where this road goes?” I prepared to hike most of the trail in and out.

Turns out, I was developing a passion for hiking and a way to walk myself out of the fog of grief.

Terry died in March of 2020 as the COVID pandemic shut down everyone’s life. He was ready to go on to his next adventure after a decade-long illness. I thought I was ready to let him go.

I was wrong.

Grief blazes its own trail one solitary step at a time.

By the fall of 2020, I had to make a choice. I could give up on a life I loved or put my big girl boots back on.    

I retired as a journalist and ghostwriter. If I had learned anything from my best friend and guide, it was to live looking forward to the next adventure.

I had always wanted the time to become a better photographer and write about the wisdom and wonder of nature. Terry’s last gift to me two months before he died was a professional camera and a long lens.

It was up to me to write the story of my new life.

Amazon delivered every piece of safety equipment I thought I could carry, and I stepped out onto an unmarked trail.

Now that I journey without Terry, I can’t resist continuing the game he taught me.

I wonder where this road goes?

I wonder how far I can see from the next rise?

I wonder if he’ll be there, waiting for me? 

And he is. His spirit is in every misty morning the world waits for the sun to begin anew.  

Thanks for walking with me.
Kris