I was leaning in. Engaged, until I saw you.

You leaned back into the corner of the small room.

You held your phone up to your eye and pointed your lens in my direction.

I got distracted, absorbed into the softness of the moment.

I saw that mid morning light was not trying very hard to get in through the blinds.

You saw that what light did make it through was warming me up in a soft swath against gray walls.

 They say that the Native Americans used to believe the process of taking a photograph of someone could steal their soul.

You snapped your photograph.

I felt a catch in my soul.

We woke up with the sun, packed up some snacks, 6 liters of water, loaded my Subaru with our dogs, and set off onto the road.

We arrived at the “trail head” around 10:45 a.m. It was on the shoulder of Highway 50 and unmarked. You just park, walk a dozen yards, and go UP the side of the mountain into the trees and hope for the best.

We hiked at a steep incline for a few miles, but it was hard to tell because the air was fresh and the trees were dense, flocked by hundreds of lush ferns at their bases.

Soon, wildflowers began to appear. They started as white daffodil-like flowers.

As we gained elevation, they turned into light purple daises, then neon pink and green shapes, and eventually, near the barren and exposed rocky summit, poofy light red flowers that kept low to the ground.

We made it to our first resting point where we took time to eat snacks, drink water, and rest.

Once we began to carry on, an altitude headache crept in and I began to feel lightheaded. Thankfully, someone had Motrin for me to take and it kicked in almost immediately.

Since my first real panic attack this past February, the feeling of lightheadedness is associated with panic attacks. It’s often the first symptom I get before an attack sets in, and it usually happens fast. But in this instance, I was able to recognize in this moment that it was not a panic attack coming on, that it was surely just the altitude causing the dizziness, and began to practice diaphragmatic breathing.

I carried on. The dirt from the trail and the elevation made my lungs hurt a little bit, and I could feel every part of each deep belly breath. I’d breathe in and my feet would go: left, right, left, right. I’d breathe out and my feet would go: left, right, left, right.

I’d pushed a panic attack away and found my breath.

Maybe an hour or two passed by but I stopped noticing. I stopped fearing the passage of time. I didn’t notice that the sun had reached its peak for the day well before we did.

We were nearing the summit.

The trees began to thin out. The ones that remained were stumpy, gnarled, strong, and weathered. And they were beautiful. Beautiful for many reasons, but mostly because they provided intermittent shade for my two dogs.

They found their own survival method by running between us to the next shade patch, and waiting and resting, before running to the next. We did this until we reached the pile of rocks at the top.

We rested in the shade, relieved to be at the turnaround point.

We sat back on some rocks, and watched as bolts of lightning struck in the distance. We ate jerky and nuts. Where we were it was hot and dry. We had miles yet to go but we had made it. I took another deep belly breath.