Thin Air, Steady Steps

At high elevations, nothing moves quickly.

You learn to breathe differently.

To walk slowly.

To carry only what matters.

The terrain demands it.

So does the air.

I was born at the base of the San Francisco Peaks—

a solitary range rising like a cathedral above the Colorado Plateau.

In Flagstaff, the mountain was always to the north.

A compass. A presence.

A place that reminds you—without words—to orient yourself.

These mountains are sacred in a mystical way.

They’re a challenge.

One that must be met with respect, humility, and awe.

The higher you go, the quieter it gets.

The brighter the sun, the cooler the air.

Granite underfoot.

Lichen glowing on stone like tiny neon constellations.

Ponderosas breathe vanilla into the wind.

Bristlecones spiral upward and silver with age.

Even in death, their trunks hold sunlight in their skin.

Once, in the San Juans of Colorado, I climbed to the base of Engineer Peak in flip-flops.

Eventually, I took them off and went barefoot—

feeling the grain of the ground under each step.

The soil shifted color as I climbed—

rust red, golden brown, ashy gray—

each layer of rock telling a story in dust.

Marmots and pikas darted through the boulders like tricksters,

watching me pass with their bright, curious eyes.

And the wildflowers—

in July, they turn the mountains into a celebration.

Scarlet, purple, yellow, blue.

A full-body reminder that even in the harshest places,

life insists on joy.

But nothing in the mountains is ever given freely.

Like the canyons, they demand planning.

Attention.

And a certain willingness to slow down and go carefully.

In Banff, the glacial lakes burn turquoise under a sky so wide it feels unreal.

The water is cold enough to remember the Ice Age.

And the mountains rise with the kind of silence that stills your pulse.

You don’t rush in places like that.

You pause.

You let yourself be small.

In winter, the hush deepens.

I’ve floated over fresh snow, gravity and board locked in rhythm.

It’s a different kind of prayer,

to ride the side of a mountain.

Maybe that’s why I return to them—

for the trees,

the rock,

the wildflowers in full bloom,

and the hush of snowfall.

For the sun,

the storms,

the sky wide enough to hold whatever I’ve been carrying.

But mostly, I return

because up there,

where the air is thin and the climb is real,

I remember how to walk slowly.

How to pay attention.

How to rise—

one clear, steady step at a time.