AdventuresNW
The weather wasn’t ideal. The views weren’t guaranteed. Before I left home, I made myself a promise: if I was going to spend the day on the mountain, I wasn’t just going to see it—I was going to experience it. Somewhere between the clouds, the wildflowers, and a hidden glacier, I discovered that the greatest gifts are often the ones we never expected to receive.
There are days when the hardest decision isn’t whether to go.
It’s whether to give ourselves permission.
Permission to step away from the responsibilities that always seem more urgent. Permission to trust that rest isn’t wasted time. Permission to believe that sometimes the most productive thing we can do is fully experience the life waiting just beyond our front door.
That was the decision I found myself facing exactly one week before my board certification exam.
For six months I had been preparing for that moment. Every day had been shaped by study sessions, practice questions, and a growing awareness that I wanted to walk into the exam room knowing I had given it everything I had.
Then my bonus mom messaged me.
She had arranged a day on Mount Baker for my niece with her cousins, John and Susan. My niece was spending the summer on Whidbey Island studying Marine Biology and Alpine Ecology, and my bonus mom thought it would be the perfect opportunity for her to experience the alpine environment she had been learning about in the classroom. Brandon and I were invited to come along.
At first, saying yes felt easy. I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with my niece since she arrived on Whidbey Island, and the thought of spending an entire day together in the mountains felt like a gift.
It also meant reconnecting with John and Susan. The last time I had hiked Mount Baker with them, I was seventeen years old. Returning nearly two decades later felt less like visiting a new place and more like reconnecting with an old friend.
Then there was Brandon.
When we moved to Whidbey Island, we made a quiet commitment to one another. We wouldn’t simply live here. We would intentionally experience it.
We would explore its trails, wander its beaches, learn its seasons, and say yes to adventures that reminded us why we had chosen this place to begin with. Not because we needed another hobby. But because every adventure became a way of honoring the bodies—and the lives—we had worked so hard to rebuild.
So why was I hesitating?
Because another commitment stood in front of me: My board exam.
The practical part of my mind began building a convincing argument. “You should stay home. You have one more week. You’ll wish you had one more day to study if the exam doesn’t go well.”
I understood the logic. Six months of preparation had brought me to this final week, and part of me worried that if I didn’t pass, I would always wonder if one more day of studying could have made the difference.
Then, as if my mind needed more evidence, the weather forecast changed. The sunny skies I had been hoping for gave way to drizzle, low clouds, cool temperatures, and uncertain visibility.
I checked the forecast again. And again.
Maybe this wasn’t the right weekend after all. Maybe we’d spend nearly seven hours driving only to hike through the rain without ever seeing the mountain. Maybe the responsible thing to do was stay home.
So I sent my bonus mom the updated weather forecast. If I’m honest, I wasn’t looking for reassurance. I was hoping she would decide to cancel. That way, I wouldn’t have to.
Her response was simple. She told me she was bringing rain gear and extra layers. That was it. Reading her message, I quietly realized something. The forecast hadn’t changed my commitments. It had only changed my expectations.
I realized I had made commitments too. Not just to my family. Not just to Brandon. But to becoming the kind of person whose choices reflect the life she wants to live.
I’ve come to believe that intentional living isn’t built through grand, life-changing decisions. It’s built through ordinary moments when our choices quietly align with our values.
So I decided to keep my commitment. But before I left home, I made myself one more promise. If I was going to spend the day on the mountain, I wasn’t just going to see it. I was going to experience it.
I would slow down. I would engage all five senses. I would notice instead of hurry. Whatever the mountain offered that day—sunshine or clouds, sweeping vistas or quiet moments—I wanted to meet it with my full attention.
Years ago, while studying photography, I began to notice something that has stayed with me ever since. People often describe extraordinary trips as “once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.” But the more I paid attention, the more I realized something different.
Every moment is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
No two moments are ever exactly the same. The people. The weather. The season. The light. The conversations. Even the version of ourselves experiencing them. Everything is constantly changing, and this exact moment will never exist again.
After the fire that left me with a broken back, and later through Brandon’s stroke and the long road of rebuilding together, that realization became impossible to ignore. Tomorrow is never promised. Not for me, and not for the people I love.
Those experiences didn’t make me appreciate life more. They made me want to honor it more.
That morning, I wasn’t simply choosing to go on a hike. I was choosing to honor a moment that would never exist again.
At the time, I thought I was simply changing my attitude. I had no idea I was changing the way I would experience everything that followed.
There are some promises we keep with effort. Others begin to keep us.
The promise I made before leaving home quietly accompanied me long before I reached the trailhead. It was there in the thirty-minute drive to pick up my niece. In the winding roads that carried us from Whidbey Island toward the foothills of Mount Baker. In the little woodland bakery John and Susan introduced us to, where the smell of perfectly roasted coffee mingled with warm pastries and the gentle excitement of hikers preparing for the day ahead.
Everything about the place felt intentional. Not extravagant. Simply thoughtful. It reminded me that hospitality isn’t found in grand gestures. It’s found in the quiet details that make people feel welcomed before they’ve even spoken a word.
After sharing a breakfast burrito and lingering just long enough to soak in the atmosphere, we continued toward the mountain, stopping briefly at Nooksack Falls.
The brilliant turquoise water rushed over stone that had been patiently shaped over countless years. Standing there, I couldn’t help but wonder how many quiet moments of persistence had carved something so beautiful. Nature has a way of reminding us that consistency often accomplishes what force never can.
By the time we reached the trailhead, the drizzle had nearly disappeared. Only one lonely pile of snow remained beside the parking area—a quiet reminder that this landscape had looked entirely different only weeks before.
Brandon couldn’t stop smiling. Not because he had never seen snow before, but because he had never seen it in July. It was our first reminder that we had stepped into an entirely different world.
As we crossed onto the trail, the wind carried cool mist across our faces. Not rain. Clouds. Real clouds. The same clouds we usually look down upon from the window of an airplane. Only now they surrounded us.
Each breeze quietly rearranged the landscape. Trees appeared, then disappeared. Ridges emerged, then vanished again behind drifting white. The mountain seemed determined to remind us that beauty doesn’t always stand still. Sometimes, it asks us to be patient.
John understood that. As a photographer, he would quietly stop along the trail, waiting for the clouds to shift just enough to reveal the image he knew was there. Watching him reminded me that patience often sees what hurry never will.
Eventually, my attention drifted toward the alpine flowers. Their fragrance surprised me. The air was so clean, so free from competing scents, that each pocket of wildflowers seemed to have its own voice. Sweet. Fresh. Delicate.
John introduced us to species I had never noticed before, explaining which plants were edible and which deserved respectful distance. Meanwhile, my niece excitedly pointed out dwarf plants that had adapted to survive the mountain’s harsh conditions. I loved watching classroom knowledge come alive beneath her hiking boots.
Every few minutes, another lesson quietly revealed itself.
The trail wound gently along the mountainside, inviting us to slow our pace without ever asking us to stop. Every few steps there was something new to notice.
The rocks beneath our feet were uneven, demanding enough attention that every step became intentional. Streams of glacial water quietly emerged from places we couldn’t see, reminding us that some of the most beautiful things are sustained by sources hidden from view.
Above us, the glacier remained concealed behind shifting clouds. We never saw it, but we always knew it was there.
Sometimes, what cannot be seen still shapes everything around it.
The mountain had a rhythm all its own. The clouds drifted. The wind shifted. The light changed. Nothing remained the same for very long. And somehow, that made me appreciate each moment even more.
Every so often I reached for my phone. Old habits have a way of quietly following us into new seasons.
For years, my instinct as a photographer had been to document beautiful moments before they disappeared. There is something deeply meaningful about preserving beauty. Photographs allow us to share experiences with people who may never stand where we stood. I will always believe that’s worthwhile.
But as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, I realized something had changed.
Not every beautiful moment asks to be captured. Some simply ask to be experienced.
Years ago, I would have walked this trail almost entirely through the lens of my camera. I would have been searching for the perfect composition, the perfect light, the perfect photograph.
This time, I found myself searching for something different.
The feeling of cool mist settling across my face. The sweetness of alpine flowers carried by the wind. The sound of a marmot somewhere above us that we never actually found. The warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds for only a few fleeting moments before disappearing once again.
I still took photographs. Just not of everything.
For the first time in a long time, I realized I didn’t need proof that the moment had been beautiful. I simply needed to be fully present while it was happening.
In choosing not to capture everything, I discovered I was finally experiencing it.
Standing at the overlook, I realized something I hadn’t expected. The clouds never revealed the summit. The glacier remained hidden behind a shifting veil of white.
And strangely, I didn’t feel disappointed. In fact, I felt grateful.
Had the peak been perfectly visible, it might have quietly stolen my attention from everything that was unfolding beneath it.
The mountain had decided what it wanted to share with us that day. And I realized it wasn’t withholding anything at all. It was inviting us to notice what we might have otherwise walked right past.
I couldn’t help but smile as I watched my niece excitedly identify dwarf huckleberries tucked among the wildflowers. Without her, I would have walked by them without a second glance.
Watching Brandon was just as meaningful. He wandered back and forth like a child discovering snow for the very first time, pausing to touch the last remaining drift before turning his attention back toward the clouds surrounding us.
Wonder has a way of making adults look like children again, and I think that’s one of life’s greatest gifts.
The overlook itself was breathtaking—not because it looked like something from a movie, but because it didn’t.
It was real.
Somewhere in the middle of taking it all in, I realized my hands hurt. I had been so immersed in the experience that I hadn’t noticed how cold they had become until I tried to take my phone back from John. I laughed at the quiet reminder that next time—even in July—I would bring gloves.
Some lessons are wonderfully practical, and others quietly change us.
As we stood there, hikers continued passing one another along the narrow trail. Each group greeted the next with a smile or a simple hello. For a few hours, strangers became a small mountain community, sharing the same path, the same weather, the same wonder.
Later, someone mentioned that the trail had been too busy to really find a rhythm. I understood what she meant. However, I realized we had come looking for different things. Some people had come to conquer a mountain. Some had come for exercise. Some hoped for an unobstructed view of the summit.
I had come with only one expectation: to experience whatever the mountain chose to offer.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
When I slipped into the driver’s seat that evening, everything outside the car was exactly as I had left it that morning. My board exam was still one week away. My to-do list was still waiting for me. Life hadn’t become less demanding.
But something inside me had changed.
Not because the mountain solved my problems. It didn’t. The mountain simply reminded me of something I never want to forget.
The world is still full of beauty.
Not the kind that demands our attention. The quiet kind that waits patiently beneath our expectations. The kind we only notice when we slow down long enough to receive it.
As I sat there waiting for feeling to return to my hands so that I could grip the steering wheel, I found myself replaying the day. Not simply what I had seen, but how fully I had experienced it. The laughter we shared. The conversations. The silence.
Every moment had become part of something much bigger than a hike. It had become a reminder.
People often ask how to live more intentionally. I’ve come to believe it begins with something much simpler than changing your entire life.
It begins by choosing to experience the life you already have.
Not tomorrow. Not when the weather is perfect. Not when the calendar finally clears.
Today.
This moment.
Because tomorrow, something will be different. The light will shift. The season will change. The people we love will change. We will change.
So perhaps the invitation isn’t to chase more extraordinary experiences. Perhaps it’s simply to become fully awake to the ordinary ones that have been waiting for us all along.
Because sometimes life’s greatest adventure isn’t where we go.
It’s how we choose to experience it.
Jennifer Burrow is the founder of Love Eat Crave Wellness, where she explores sustainable well-being through evidence-informed guidance, personal storytelling, and intentional living. Through The Journal, she encourages people to build a way of living that supports their health while making room to fully experience it. Visit LoveEatCraveWellness.com.
