The Mountains Don’t Let You Hide

When the road is the only way forward.

After my divorce, I took my first long road trip alone. Two and a half weeks across Yellowstone, the Tetons, and Glacier National Park. I was raw and uncertain, but I knew one thing: standing still in grief wasn’t going to save me. Movement would. The open road, with its endless turns and unexpected detours, mirrored my own life at the time. It taught me that moving forward — even without a map for what comes next — is its own form of courage.

But when the Rockies finally rose out of the horizon on I-90, jagged against the sky, the illusion cracked. My chest caved. I gripped the wheel and sobbed, gutted by the truth: I wasn’t fine. I was broken. The mountains stripped me bare in a way no person ever could. They didn’t let me hide.

This summer, I returned to Glacier and set out on the twelve-mile trail to Iceberg Lake. We started at Many Glacier Hotel, where Swiftcurrent Lake lay still as glass, reflecting the peaks in perfect symmetry. Then a breeze moved across the surface, scattering the reflection into ripples. Just like that, what seemed solid dissolved — a reminder that nothing holds still for long.

The trail itself was steady but demanding, rocky and winding, sometimes broad and easy, then narrowing to no more than the width of my boots. Rocks shifted underfoot, gravel slid if I wasn’t careful, and the air carried the sharp scent of pine. As we passed other hikers, stories of bear sightings floated from group to group — reminders that the wild here isn’t decoration. It’s alive, watching, always close.

We stopped at a waterfall where the rapids spilled into a clearing before rushing down the mountainside. A squirrel darted toward us, eyes sharp, hoping for scraps. A butterfly hovered in the mist, wings pulsing against the roar of water. Even in a place carved by risk and raw power, there was softness.

At the lake, the water was turquoise and still, shards of ice floating against the cliffs even in midsummer. The walls of rock surrounding it closed in like an amphitheater, magnifying silence. But the sky began to shift — clouds gathering, light dimming. By the time we started the return trip, the storm was on our heels.

In the last miles, thunder cracked above the ridges, lightning split the horizon. We stopped to pull on rain gear, lucky to miss the downpour. Instead, we walked the final hour in a steady mist, the cliffs lit up with each strike, exposed and small against the scale of it all. Only when the path wound back under forest cover did my body let go of its tension.

By the time we reached the hotel, my legs were heavy, my clothes damp, my spirit scraped raw. The mountains hadn’t healed me. They hadn’t erased betrayal or pieced me back together. But they demanded honesty. They forced me into presence — one step, one breath, nothing more.

The mountains don’t let you hide. They make you look. And in the looking, even if you are still broken, you keep moving.

Anchoring in the Present

What I keep learning, both on the trail and in my life, is that anchoring in the present moment is the only way through. When fear rises, when betrayal leaves you shattered, when the path narrows or the storm closes in, courage isn’t about erasing the fear — it’s about breathing into it, grounding into the step you’re taking right now. Nature teaches this best. The mountains, the water, the wind — they remind me that change is constant, that uncertainty is part of the design. Awe pulls me back into presence, and presence steadies me in the transition. I am still broken, still afraid at times, but I keep moving. And maybe that’s resilience: not perfection, not being “fixed,” but the quiet decision to stay with yourself, one breath and one step at a time.

Key Takeaways for Navigating Uncertainty and Challenge

• Anchor in the Present
  Use your breath, your body, and your senses to ground yourself when fear or uncertainty rises.

• Take the Next Step
  Don’t look too far ahead. Focus on the step you can take now.

• Let Awe Reset You
  Pause to notice beauty — a ripple on water, a flower in rock. Awe steadies perspective.

• Reframe Fear as Courage
  Fear is a signal, not a stop sign. Lean in and move with it, one deliberate step at a time.

• Accept the Wildness
  Life is untamed. Resilience grows in uncertainty, not in control.