As I write this, summer is a distant memory. The sun bids us adieu before 6pm; the mountain peaks are snow-covered once again; and the temperature gauge flirts above and below 0ºC.

We don’t ever get too much of the in-between seasons in the Rockies, but when fall does arrive, we have a couple of weeks to savour the golden yellow larch trees before their needles drop and signify the beginning of winter. Their needles turn with the first frost, going from green to yellow before becoming bare. We went on a leisurely and thankfully warm walk with our dear friends’ dog, Hobbit to mark the occasion and to enjoy the splendour.

It's going to be hard for me to put into words the depth of my love for the mountains. The unexplained affinity I have for these tall piles of ancient rock and how it is that I'm drawn to them in the first place, as a woman born in an archipelago of 7,000 islands who spent her entire life in countries surrounded by the ocean (amongst zero mountains).