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.

I don’t know what I expected when I decided to summit and ski all seven of my local peaks in a summer. Adventure, alpine views, some suffering. I couldn’t have imagined everything it would entail. Whiteouts. Sunset skiing. Even heat exhaustion all played a role as I raced to climb the summits before the snow melted. By the end of the summer, my body was worn down. But time has a way of changing perspective. Blisters and bruises have healed. Only cherished memories remain.

As the pandemic raged on, I found myself stuck at home and in need of adventure. After years of thinking about ordering a raft, I decided it was time. Months later it arrived and I was ready to get on the water.

I’ve wanted to ski Mt. Washington for a couple years. It stands out on the skyline as I’m driving around town. Over fifteen hundred feet of open alpine skiing. Every time I lay eyes on the mountain, I imagine skiing it.

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.