I took a deep breath in slowly just like I had practiced at home. As I marvelled at the Squamish river, meandering its way down towards the Pacific Ocean, a wave of gratitude hit me. This was an area I waded through at the end of every autumn in the pursuit of catching salmon and trout. I felt its bounty and abundance; frozen hands and all.

I also understood its strength. You could be swept away in a flash, gone in seconds; and most ironically, the easiest way to move through it is to surrender to it first — carefully, one leg down at a time. This river has persevered against the test of time and will likely endure humans too. In that moment, the inevitability of death sunk in... One day, it will be my turn to become pebbles.

A gust of zen gently caressed my body amidst the cool breeze of the Pacific NorthWest. Mother Nature had discretely seduced me into a state of being. Problems I had agonized over turned into opportunities for growth. Self-imposed deadlines were no longer life or death situations. I don't have to rush. There was more than enough time, for everything.

I practiced aquascaping to soothe my anxiety; and in the process, ended up falling in love with nature. I followed small streams that converged into larger rivers, shivered in the chill of the shadows behind the mountains, heard bald eagles whistling high above me, and felt the fear of stumbling into bear tracks. Once, I even went off the trail. It was wild — but not exactly me.

The trail to Elfin Lakes was 22 kms round trip, included soft undulating hills and featured two lakes. One basin was meant for sustenance, and the other entertained weary hikers with swimming abilities. Whisky Jacks had been following me on the way up — looking for an easy snack I bet. They were thick for supposedly wild birds — and just so darn cute. Fine. I'll share. I picked out an almond from my trail mix — and held my palm up. Gobbled in seconds.

I could not help but feel thankful for human ingenuity. It only took 25 lbs of equipment to survive one night in the mountain comfortably: the ultra-lightweight tent that protects me from the weather, the sleeping bag and air mattress that compresses down to nothing, the pocket rocket plus portable gas that's heating up my dinner, and this mechanical pump that purifies water for drinking. Goodness, humans. We might be too smart.

After I arrived at the camp site, then unpacked my gear, set up the tent, and stretched my toes. The final step was to clip my reservation papers to the post at the corner. I had carried just enough supplies to make it through one evening. Tonight, I was having ox-bone flavoured instant noodles with some frozen rib-eye slices and baby bok choy. I was infatuated with this experience. Our world, it's truly amazing.

While I waited for dinner to fire up, a mountain sunset shared its greetings. Its healing rays warmed my soul and brought about a clarity to my tentative thoughts. We don't need to prove to anyone what we are. We don't need a grand reason to do what we love. Sometimes we need encouragement. Sometimes we need silence. Things change all the time. If we're okay, that's enough, really.

As I carefully trekked my way up the craggy slope that overlooked the Rampart Ponds, I did my best impression of a brave pioneer. A brutal heat wave this summer had reduced it to a single aquamarine pool and a few puddles. If we rewound time on Mars, is this the view that would greet us? This barren landscape was a moment frozen in time; free of pollution. Softly desolate. Eerily comforting.

The purpose of my existence eluded me, but I knew that some answers could be found deep in the mountains. No cell signal. A mandatory break to allow the mind to breathe, to be freed from the incessant thoughts that plague us, and most importantly — to be present. Under its aura, my feelings of insecurity always shrunk; allowing my being to fill in the gaps.

In nurturing my presence, I released myself from my over-programmed ego. It fed on my personal trauma and gained strength from the emotional baggage that I unwittingly carried. I relied on its protection, often; even if it meant stabbing myself in the process. That was then, this is now. The me that I was, it was me, but it isn't me anymore. Now, I choose kindness; to forgive myself; to love myself.

The arduous journey up to this point had satiated my curiosity. I could go further up, but I didn't want to slip and die. I involuntarily glanced down — it was a discombobulating sight. I most definitely am not a thrill seeker; and it really doesn't matter. Nobody is perfect. Everyone has their strengths — and weaknesses. I am allowed to be me, to feel fear, to have boundaries.

Along the bluffs under a flurry of snow, a few hikers and a living corpse traversed to the Kicking Horse campsite. After foolishly eating sushi the night before, the shackles of food poisoning destroyed my stomach and sapped my energy. All that was left of me was a sad shadow, silently freezing in the tent with no appetite; curled up in discomfort; begging for the aching to stop; bracing myself for the long night ahead.

Ugh. The discomfort worsened. Pain. It was time to seek relief. After rummaging around for the headlamp, I trudged along the illuminated path to salvation with heavy steps and unfastened laces. Like a beacon of hope, the outhouse glimmered in the subzero conditions. The snow had built up around it like an igloo; and I would be seated in it indefinitely; alternating as a space heater; waiting for the relief to arrive.

Sometimes I wonder to myself why I do it. Hiking. Backpacking. Everything. I could be curled up in bed watching romantic Korean dramas like a hearty vegetable in a cozy garden; but I'm here, in a small and strangely warm wooden latrine; trying to hold on for my life; and sanity itself. Tough situations always drag on when you're in the thick of it, but I guess it builds character and makes for "fun" memories. This isn't so bad; my body disagreed.

I'm sure the restaurant didn't want to mishandle their food. I couldn't even tell the sashimi had been tainted. It was an accident. Things happen. There was nothing personal about this — perhaps they are experiencing some challenges. Change is the nature of the universe after all. Nothing stays the same forever no matter how hard we try to protect it. All we can do is appreciate what is while it lasts; and survive the night.

The creeks and meadows to Garibaldi lake seemed to stretch indefinitely. "Why did I bring carrots again?" I remarked as I rummaged through my backpack on a wooden stump. Camping gear and clothes filled it to the brim; and a ziplock bag of mini orange death sticks were the last "straws" that broke this pack mule's back. My cramping thighs had immobilized me — and halted this march for the nth time.

I had planned for two evenings, but it was doubtful that I was going to make it past the first. My body was not moving as my heart willed it to. I didn't feel like feeding either. Water is enough. Bear Grylls said you can survive 3 weeks with just water. I'll eat when I arrive. I'm close. I wanted to be strong in front of my friends, I didn't want to appear weak. This situation though.

It was the complete opposite of strength. I was overconfident, underprepared — and unable to cast aside my pride to ask for help when the obvious was apparent. This isn't me though. So I meekly asked for a hand. Without judgment, my friends shared pieces of my burden, then coaxed me into eating a gummy bear. I forgot that I didn't have to do this by myself. They had my back. Why was that so hard?

With their guidance, we made it past the rest of the switchbacks and arrived at the turquoise alpine lake. Its beauty rippled at my feet as the glacial mountains exuded a humbling effect. All surrounded by it would have their worries allayed and vitality restored. It was a privilege to be here; to have friends that care about me; to be healthy enough to move my body as I want to.