Mountain Commandments
On a recent run, my back soaked in the beating spring sun as I followed a narrow path through the sagebrush field. Ponderosa pines reached into the sky—some of them a hundred years old. I passed through in minutes and still claim familiarity.
Gradually, the trees packed closer together—until suddenly, it was forest. A pine cone became a temporary soccer ball, crunching and skittering along the trail with each step. Then the gradient tipped upward and I left it behind, my focus consumed by effort. My heart pounded, legs dragged, doubt slipped into each step.
Movement in the mountains reveals something quickly: the mind is loud, but the body is honest.
It becomes a balancing act—at what point does the burn shift from joy to ego? From presence to performance? I consider myself a lazy athlete, more interested in staying in love than getting faster. If I let pride set the pace, I burn out. If I move for the love of it, I return—again and again.
That instinct—to preserve joy—became my first mountain commandment:
Slow the fuck down.
The rest followed over time, shaped not by success, but by friction:
Slow the fuck down
Plan A gets you out there; Plan Z gets you home
Be prepared. Be humble.
Find the glory in it all
Peaks are for presence
These aren’t just rules for movement within the mountains, but have become a philosophy of life. My tendencies to rush, to carry a heavy burden, to come across obstacles are found equally in the mountains as my everyday life.
Every adventure drifts from its original plan. Gear fails. Weather turns. Trails disappear. None of these are failures—they’re life. The mountains don’t care about your goals, your timelines, or your sense of control. The wilderness will continue being wild. The best you can do is meet it prepared, and humble.
And then there is the unexpected gift of it all.
After days pinned down by rain, rivers too swollen to cross, frustration gives way—sometimes—to awe. What a privilege to witness a storm in full force. Beauty isn’t reserved for summit views. It’s in the mud gripping your shoes, the soaked socks, the endless uphill, the wind flattening your tent. There is glory in all of it.
Some of my favorite memories live in discomfort: skiing through a freezing cloud, visibility cut to a few feet, laughing with a friend at how ridiculous that we choose to be there. We laugh, we rest, we endure—and in that, we create something. A story. A feeling. A way of seeing that lingers longer than the effort itself.
With the car in sight, the run comes to an end. I linger, reluctant to leave, wanting to stretch the moment thin. But the sagebrush fields exist because I am only a passerby. To stay would be to change it—to carve into it, claim it, diminish it.
So I remain a visitor.
I have lunch with the mountaintops and tea with the trees. I bathe in cold creeks and echo birdsong back into the air. Briefly, lightly, I move through.
Peaks are for presence.
The ignition turns. The spell loosens. I drive back toward a world of schedules and structures, already knowing I’ll return.
Not to conquer anything.
But to move, to notice, and to shape those fleeting moments into something that lasts a little longer than footsteps.
