Author’s Note: Would you join me this month to celebrate my love affair with the natural world? During May, I’m devoting most of social media posts and all of my blog posts to exploring my lifelong connection and love of the natural world, sharing the lessons of the mountains, the forest, the sea and the garden.

Starting with a clear, October day on Saddleback Mountain in Western Maine, when a friend’s injury drove home one life lesson of these beautiful mountains: the power of small, steady steps.

We realized how much trouble we were in when we reached the road. Still a few miles to walk through the thick woods before we descended Saddleback Mountain in Western Maine. Daylight fading fast. Not a single flashlight among our group of five women.

Not one more thing could go wrong, I thought. One more mishap and we will be stuck on the mountain overnight in our shorts and fleece pullovers, among curious wild animals with their expert night vision and survival skills. We were low on food, clean water and warm clothes. The sky faded to pale blue, then grey.

On this October night here in the Western Maine mountains, temperatures could easily drop below freezing. The clear weather could quickly turn stormy.

All this ran through my mind, as one of the two experienced hikers who should have known better than to start so late, leaving no time for the injury our friend sustained at the summit. Now, we all understood the consequences of one more misstep.

At least we were still moving. Slowly.

Women’s Weekend Adventure Takes a Turn

Our Saturday of girls’ get-away weekend had been sun-drenched and spectacular until the afternoon. One of those crisp, crystal-clear October days that started sunny and cool, then warmed to a comfortable day of mountain climbing and chit-chatting, plenty warm in shirt-sleeves. Our 12-mile, round trip route took us on a dirt path into the forest, fragrant with the scent of crushed pine needles, and ground bits of dried leaves. Gold, crimson and flame orange speckled the canopy of birch, maple, oak and balsam pine.

The footpath hugged the small Ethel Pond, then a bog named Eddy Pond and began a steep climb over root and rock toward the summit. Blue sky and bedrock, sweat and hand-over-hand grit marked that steep final mile to the summit, 4,126 feet above sea level.

Back then, in my 20s, I hiked a lot.

I did not grow up among mountains, but chose them for their beauty. For the excitement of exploring and getting to know them. For the anticipation of satisfaction and views from their summits. For their lessons.

Maine’s seacoast clinched the deal, once New Hampshire’s White Mountains had hooked me on living near wild places in northern New England. My paperback copy of the sage green Appalachian Mountain Club hiker’s guide with a pocket for the thin, paper fold-out maps was dog-eared and dirty from the trail. I went with buddies, and groups and alone several times a season.

Each summer, I’d celebrate my birthday by hiking a mountain of at least 4,000 feet, an ever-taller peak until I finally climbed Mount Washington — at 6,288 feet the highest in the Northeast. Since that climb, any mountain would do. Katahdin. The Bigelow Range. Cadillac in Acadia National Park.

Standing on the summit is a sweet rush of triumph, of conquest. My two feet, breath and sheer will combine to carry me from the parking lot up to this spot, higher than anything else I can see around me. Close to the clouds. The closest I can get to heaven. I love it even when my heart is pounding and my legs are screaming “enough!”

On those big climbs, I’d often pause at a clearing midway up the mountain to turn and look back at how far my feet had carried me. One step at a time.

The mountains’ lesson: Baby steps add up to big journeys and accomplishments.

On this October evening on Saddleback Mountain, I needed them to add up to safe passage back to the car for all of us.

That afternoon, just before I reached the summit with its views overlooking tree-covered mountains and shimmering lakes, I heard the news.

My friend in our group — a strong, tall and capable fitness instructor and trainer — had suffered the quick onset of a migraine headache. Seeking relief, she began her descent and stumbled. She rolled her foot completely to one side, then to the other. Later, we would learn she tore every ligament in her foot and would be on crutches for weeks.

Mount Saddleback, western Maine.

Delicate, Deliberate Descent

In tremendous pain, she could not put any weight on her foot. One step at a time, she leaned on two other women to descend the steep, stone steps. We were three abreast, on narrow, rocky steps that are tricky footing for anyone.

We were slow and steady, concentrating on our footing. We took turns helping our friend and stayed positive and encouraging. Our group included fitness instructors, trainers and an experienced hiker. She also knew better than to be caught on the trail this late in the day without a flashlight.

Slow and steady, one careful step at a time, we had managed to descend the steepest, rockiest stretch from the peak down. By dusk, we reached the road where people were camping. Another friend — the other experienced hiker in the group who also regretted our late start — spoke with a camper and fellow hiker. She confirmed our location and borrowed a flashlight. We promised to leave it at his truck on our way out.

We would be OK, as long as nothing else went wrong.

And so, ultra-careful of our footing, we took baby steps as a group shared the flashlight. No one wanted to barrel ahead, trip and risk another injury.

We stood still and patiently in the dark with our injured friend, as our other seasoned hiker used the flashlight to walk 10 feet ahead then stopped, turned around and shined the light on our path. We walked carefully, alerting each other to obstacles like roots and rocks, as far as we could see.

We repeated the process, many, many times.

Our slow and steady baby steps, patience and cooperation did the job. We reached the parked car sometime around 9 or 10 p.m. without further mishap. We were tired, filthy, hungry — and safely off the mountain.

We returned the flashlight to the truck of the friendly hiker we’d met on the road.

We drove the 10 miles back through town to our cabin on Rangeley Lake, where we heaped ice upon the swollen foot and ankle of our injured friend, re-hydrated with water and wine and shared a late dinner. Most of us bounced back in the next couple of days, while our injured friend had many weeks of recovery ahead.

A few years later, I returned to Saddleback with two other friends for a day-hike on a hot summer day. We started early in the morning, reached the summit, relished the spectacular views and returned to the porch of our lakeside cabin by dinnertime.

Saddleback Mountain

Mountains of my Heart

Flat terrain holds no appeal for me.

These days, I live surrounded by mountain ridges in central Pennsylvania’s Ridge and Valley province, glad to live in the Appalachian Mountains for all the beauty, peace, experiences among forest, stream and trail they offer — and their lessons.

Lately, the tall peaks with alpine forests and stunning vistas have been more prominent in my dreams than my day-trips. But I’ll always be on the trail, breathing in fresh air nourishing to body and soul and still marveling at how small and steady steps lead to triumph.

Thanks for joining me on this journey of journeys. Our connection to the natural world matters. We can’t save what we don’t know and love. These connection points are beacons of hope. Read more: Our “Guiding Lights”.

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