Teachings Along The Trail

Every summer for the past four years (with the fifth coming up this July), I have had the privilege, joy, and honor of guiding women on journeys up some pretty arduous, higher-elevation mountains.

While the Adirondack Mountains are not the Rockies or Mount Everest, these high-peak mountains still require the same things: physical preparedness, mental resilience, focus, humility, and clear intent.

Some of these climbs take an entire day - from sunrise to sunset - to make it up and back down to the trailhead, depending on experience, weather, and pace.

And sometimes, people don’t make it to the summit.

Sometimes they stop and rest for a few hours in a breathtaking spot somewhere along the path. Sometimes they turn back earlier than the rest of the group.

This is often the moment when an internal struggle begins. A quiet (or not-so-quiet) battle with consciousness. Feelings of guilt, shame, anger, or hopelessness can surface quickly - especially in a culture that celebrates summits, destinations, and finish lines.

But what we teach - and what the mountain teaches - is this:

there is no real destination.

Only the ones we place in our own minds.

Those imagined destinations can limit us from fully experiencing life and our path with patience, pride, and grace.

As humans, it is difficult for us to see the bigger picture.

To trust the timing and pace of our own steps along our path.

To celebrate the milestones of our moments without comparing them to the milestones of others.

I have a lifetime of experience climbing the highest peaks in the Adirondack Mountains, and I’ve been physically active most of my life. But my path, my way, my milestones are not the same as anyone else’s.

To compare your capacity to summit next to mine would be unfair and unrealistic.

Just as unrealistic as it would be for me to compare myself to someone who trains for and climbs Mount Everest.

We are different.

We have different wants, needs, desires, bodies, histories, and capacities.

And yet - there is one truth that unites us all:

If I truly wanted to climb Everest, I would do what was required to get there.

I would make it a priority.

I would shape my life around that goal.

Climbing Everest has never been something I’ve aspired to, but I know this: if it lived deeply in my heart, I would find a way to make it happen.

That doesn’t mean it would be easy.

It doesn’t mean I would succeed.

But comparing my journey to those who already have would be futile.

What is useful is inspiration - learning from the experiences, skills, and dedication of others - while keeping in perspective that their abilities, their timing, and their path are ultimately different from my own.

One of the clearest lessons I’ve ever learned on the mountain came while climbing Mount Harvard in Colorado - the 3rd highest peak in the Rockies at 14,424 feet;

It was a summer when I was experiencing significant health challenges and had far less physical energy than usual. Still, climbing that mountain was a goal I wanted deeply.

As we reached beyond the treeline and began the steep, rocky ascent toward the summit, my body started sending unmistakable signals. When I was about 100 meters from the top - close enough to see the summit outlined against the sky - I knew I had reached my stopping point.

My body was screaming to stop.

My ego protested.

My heart sank.

But my intuition to not keep going was unwavering.

So I sat there, just below the summit, as my climbing partners continued upward without me.

Could I have pushed myself further?

Maybe.

Was there a reason my inner voice was so clear about pausing?

Perhaps.

We rarely receive confirmation about why we must trust ourselves in certain moments. And yet that quiet, inner knowing is the only true compass we ever have.

As I sat there on the south side of the mountain- resting, breathing, listening - I realized something profound:

I was not failing.

I was honoring myself.

The mountain did not measure me by the final steps I didn’t take.

It met me exactly where I was.

And in that moment, I understood that the summit is not always the point.

Sometimes the lesson lives in knowing when to stop.

Sometimes strength looks like restraint.

Sometimes the most courageous act is choosing presence over pride.

The mountain doesn’t care how far you go.

It cares that you are awake while you are there.

And that is something I carry with me - on every climb, and in life, long after the trail ends.

Much like my practices in guiding people on real-life journeys up mountains, my work guiding people through Shamanic journeys of consciousness, walks the very same path and follows the same teachings.

Sometimes, people on a shamanic journey with me need to stop - or cannot move beyond the first junctures of exploration into their subconscious mind.

These moments are not failures.

They are invitations.

Invitations to trust.

To allow.

To listen carefully.

To show ourselves grace while honoring each step we are able to take along the way.

With patience, compassion, and an unwavering commitment to never stop trying - to meet ourselves honestly where we are - we allow space for pauses.

We allow ourselves to stop along the path when we need to.

We allow ourselves to turn back sooner than we may want to.

And in doing so, we learn to celebrate not only our courage to show up and begin the journey, but the deep wisdom it takes to honor our stages along the path toward our own goals.

Often, when we do this - much like the women who did not summit one summer but used that experience as inspiration for their training, returning the following year to reach their goal in their own time and in their own way - we get there.

Keeping the vision alive.

Seeing the bigger picture.

Holding a wider perspective.

These are the things that inspire us to keep training, keep trusting, keep walking our own paths - and to continue exploring our own journeys, apart from the timelines, milestones, and summits of others.

You do not need to be the strongest.

You do not need to be the fastest.

You only need the willingness to begin.

And so, we walk on -

step by step, breath by breath -

trusting that the mountain meets us not at the top, but everywhere we choose to be fully present along the way.