After years of deadlines and too many days spent indoors, I finally stepped off the grid and into something quieter. Something slower. The mountains called — not the ones wrapped in souvenir shops and tour buses, but the hidden ones. The ones beyond reliable cell reception, where trails disappear if you’re not paying attention. The ones where pine needles soften the path and the silence is only broken by a distant stream or the crunch of gravel underfoot.
These days, I wake with the sun, sip coffee on a porch that overlooks ridgelines, and head out to hike winding trails or ride quiet backroads, camera in my backpack. I stop often — not because I’m in a hurry, but because I’m not.
When I wander back into town, I find a quiet coffee shop — the kind with scratched-up tables, mismatched mugs, and a barista who doesn’t need your name because she already knows it. I sit by the window with a half-finished journal and no real plans, wondering what tomorrow might bring — and feeling fine not knowing.
I don’t rush much anymore. Not up hills, not through conversations, and not past a stretch of sun through the trees just to say I made it. Turns out, most things — hiking, writing, even getting older — work better when you stop trying to win at them.
Some days I hike until the trail fades out. Or I do. I take a few photos, sit on a rock, sip lukewarm coffee I forgot was in my pack. If it rains, I get wet. If I forget why I came, I figure it couldn’t have been all that important.
The mountains didn't make me someone new. They just gave me time - time to be who I always was: someone who loves a quiet trail, a slow morning, and maybe one more bend in the path before heading home.