As the sun filtered through the lacey curtains of the motel, I rolled out of bed and began getting dressed in my hiking gear. With half-opened eyes, I sat at the edge of the stiff mattress, applying layer upon layer of sunscreen, and gazing with excitement and concern at the heavy pack starring me down from the corner. More concerning still was the several pounds of camera gear that would soon attract criticism from my backpacking companions as “unnecessary weight”. Set in my ways, I plucked the charging batteries off the wall, and grabbed my camera off the nightstand, and prepared for battle. 

After a not-so-brief Starbucks experience courtesy of COVID-19, we piled our gear into the car and headed up the road. After a half-hour of hilly mountain road, we reached the trailhead which bore a familiarity that brought with it a sense of glowing anticipation. As my first backpacking destination many years before, and the background of my all-time favorite wildlife shot, Moonlight Lake holds a special place in my heart.

With our heavy packs filled with ramen and dehydrated vegetables to nourish us for five nights, we trudged along the trail for a few hours before making a stop at Dingleberry Lake to pump water. To get our adrenaline going, my boyfriend took his finger for a piece of salami, and reminded me why I am not entering the medical field. I will spare you the photos, but after christening the rocks with blood, his finger has finally graduated from gauze to a band-aid, and thankfully did not require trail-side stitches. 

As the day wore on, we all started to stumble rather than hike. With each stop, I regretted the moment when I would have to throw my pack over my shoulders, and face the bruise which has begun to blossom on my lower back from the curvature of the hard plastic bear cylinder which I had poorly placed. After 7.52 miles of trail and 2,396 feet of elevation with a 30+ pound pack ending with the quintessential boulder scramble that becomes more of a stumble after 7 hours on the trail, we finally made it to our destination amongst the trees. Exhausted, I changed into my flip-flops, set up my tent which still had that new tent smell -- soon to be overpowered by the scent of the backpacker -- and haphazardly emptied the contents of my backpack into it. With that, I was established, and returned to our common area to help cook dinner and collapse on a nice comfy boulder. 

Under the glow of the nearly full moon, the stars were suppressed, placing my tripod as a near equal with the boulders around my tent. After discussing the long hike to our current residence, and taking a few star shots, I snuggled up in my lime green sleeping bag like a little caterpillar and fell asleep with the rainfly off the front of my tent for ample star viewing.

The following morning I awoke to the bright alpine sun cooking me alive in my tent. After attempting with great effort to get dressed within the confines of my one-person tent, I joined the rest of the group for tea and oatmeal. I was soon informed that I was invited on a hike (more like a scramble) to the top of a nearby peak above Echo Lake. Realizing I was a bit late to the discussion, I downed my breakfast and quickly packed my backpack with a few snacks which, come to find out, would not last me until 5 o’clock in the afternoon when we would finally return from our “little” adventure. 

Our hike began with a leisurely stroll across a meadow and an mellow scramble along a shadowy cascade below Echo lake. As we approached the lake in all of its blueish-green silty glory, we saw the peaks looming in the distance. Seeing no trail in sight, I asked where exactly we were going, to which my companions pointed vaguely upwards towards a seemingly never ending talus field. My sore legs groaned a bit, but the prospect of standing at the top of a rocky peak and peering down into the valley seemed promising. Following several hours of boulder hopping, snow field stepping,and a change of peak choice, we made it to a section that was a bit more than a casual rock scramble -- so much so that I retired my camera in my backpack! 

Being relatively inexperienced in the art of clinging to rocks, and generally unfond of heights and steep cliffs, it was slow going as we approached the highest boulders. After a bit of coaxing, I made it to the peak and the view that greeted me revived my spirit. Below stood gorgeous teal lakes surrounded by layers of mountain tops reaching out for miles. After taking in the breath-taking view for a while, we skirted around a boulder, hopped down a skree field, and slid through the snow fields like flamingos attempting to ski. With day old hiker legs and a tired mind, my hopping became more of a side step, and no rock could be trusted to stay in its place. Finally, as the sun set behind Picture peak, we arrived back at camp. 

With tired legs from two consecutive days  of tough hiking, I spent the next three days exploring the nearby area visiting neighboring lakes such as Hungry Packer and Midnight, and hiding in the rocks to capture candid photos of Lupine the marmot and her babies, Aster and Sage.

 On my final day, as I sat in the rocks taking in the view of Moonlight Lake, and swatting a seemingly endless swarm of mosquitos, I felt my mind and body being recharged. In the act of surviving, I found myself effortlessly living. I began to realize that when faced with the simplicity of backpacking and the beauty of the natural world, a certain sense of peace arises that can be found only when all searches cease. Out there, enveloped in the starry skies and silent solitude, there is a force that extends beyond any man-made remedy. To stand so close to the edge of cliffs and reach the tops of peaks.  To be submerged in freezing glacier lakes and witness the marmot’s instinctual motherly love. To watch the sun rise and set in correspondence with the moon, and stare at the sky until the stars move. To be grounded. To be connected. To be wild.