As I stood shin-deep in the middle of a stream shivering, I questioned what I was doing. Rain poured down and the temperature was dropping. I was losing my ability to stay warm.

Wyatt looked at the map. “It looks like we entered the creek too low,” he yelled over the sound of the water. “We need to go further upstream.”

Backpacking Kentucky Falls in Oregon’s Siuslaw Nation Forest.

As I arrived at the put-in, the sun streamed down into the valley. I stepped out of the car and the gravel crunched beneath my feet. A slight breeze carried the scent of the river by my nose. Everything was perfect. It was… unexpected.

As I prepared for a day of climbing, it was storming in the mountains. Though it was almost summer, it had been snowing for days. The forecast called for more snow and increasing winds. A summit bid seemed unlikely.

I’ve always heard outdoor athletes talking about inspiring lines in the mountains. Lines that called to them and forced them to push to new levels. Lines that consumed them. Their thoughts and dreams. I never really understood. I could see the lines that they were talking about. I heard the excitement in their voice. I just never felt the same way. I didn’t relate to that feeling of inspiration. I never felt that a line was calling to me. At least, I didn’t until last spring.