Albeit true, it is cliché to say that the world has changed since I initially had this post sitting in my drafts, when January & February passed us by, but March seemed to last forever.

Freya’s first winter hike at 10 weeks old. The temperatures must have been -15ºC or colder, there was wind chill, very little sun and ankle or knee-deep snow (which makes walking a one step forward, slide two steps backwards kind of game) during our 4 hour adventure in the woods.

It’s cliché to say that the year has been full of change and growth (are there ever any years that aren’t?), but 2019 was a big one. More than any other, it feels as if this year has been pivotal in building foundations for the future. It feels good to step forward into the new decade with the momentum of 2019—but it’s also terrifying.

Being wholehearted and unequivocal dog lovers, we had been waiting for the right time to have a dog. Feeling more settled in our jobs and in our lives, half-joking conversations and casual searches soon turned into more serious and fervent efforts (plus a few rounds of “are we really doing this?”) to find our dog.

The weekend before Christmas we went to cut down our first Christmas tree. When we originally planned this day, we had no idea we would also be joined by our new pup, Freya, and J’s father, who came for an impromptu pre-Christmas visit. It made our day in the woods with friends, coffee and a fire all the more special.

A snowy hike that put smiles on our faces and reminded us that winter, despite its typically early arrival and delayed departure, isn’t always so bad after all. We braved the icy highway and drove 90 minutes from home to a spot I had only ever ventured to in the summertime.

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.

In mid-August, we visited J’s parents’ farm in Ontario. A long-awaited visit, the warmth, humidity, lush green pastures and utter tranquility was a welcome break from the relentless rain, tourist hubbub and parched mountain air.

Living wholeheartedly in the mountains. One day, this place will no longer be home, but everything I have learnt from the woods, the silent rock, the ancient fossils, the glacial streams and the resilient alpine wildflowers will always be with me.

“Trust the timing of your life”. I had written this as a note to myself in the spring of 2018, feeling trapped in the throes of uncertainty. A little more than a year later, I dance between knowing I have learnt the lesson, and feeling as if I have a long way to go.

A weekend away to mark our first year together; a year that challenged us individually and also as a couple, but brought great joy and growth with it.

Last Saturday consisted of: a sleep-in and a delightfully leisurely breakfast of crepes & “eggy-in-a-basket”; coffee brewed by AeroPress (our usual) and conversation; a nice long stretch on the living room floor (a new wellbeing habit we are trying to incorporate into our ever-changing daily routine); a podcast during our drive to the trail and this—an 11km round-trip jaunt into the woods.

Winter likes to hit us with an icy, teeth-chattering smack in the face in February, right when we think we’ve walked away unscathed and untouched by temperatures below -15ºC. It’s been -30ºC with plenty of snow; a stark contrast to when December & January left us scratching our heads and wondering if we would truly be lucky enough to only see temperatures around 0ºC this season. Alas, how wrong we were.

A long drive a couple of hours north during a rare day off together, listening to podcasts that spark meaningful conversation. We get to the lake we’re looking for and we gaze down, down, down into the depths of its glacier green, its fractal white, its crystallised air. Methane from decaying plant matter froze as it rose to the surface, making art of winter’s fierce, icy grip.

I spent my second Canadian Christmas out on the farm with J and his family; the very place where he grew up and started to become the person I now know. Upon arriving in Ontario on Christmas Eve, we were gifted with a white Christmas after all, a mild start to our winter in the west leaving our town a barren, snow-less place.

I couldn’t find a word for this year, so I put it to my siblings and my mother. “What would you say the theme of this year has been for me?”. Resilience, they answered. I’ve sat with this for a little while, because I’m unsure if I agree; I didn’t feel resilient, brave or strong at all last year. I allowed myself to slide into a mental slump that I’m now finding difficult to climb my way out of.

Our favourite part of the trip, hands down, was the day we hiked up to Snowbird Pass. It was a 9 hour, 27km (16.7mi) day, all to walk to a spot where you could see an enormous icefield thousands of years old. We stood and imagined how the rest of the valley would have looked centuries ago—the lush green valleys, bright wildflowers & flowing streams we had just passed being nothing but ice. The world was quiet here, and I longed to sit in its stillness for far longer than our little lunch break.

Our second day at Berg Lake was a little more leisurely. I had every intention of letting my body rest, but for me, sleeping in was impossible when the world came alive. I woke up a little after 5:30am, gently unzipping the tent to peel away our “door” and peek at the outside world, gingerly facing the cold.

“Do you guys do this for fun?”

These were the words uttered by a group of girls we passed on our way down from Berg Lake. By that point, we were already a quarter of the way into our 20km descent, having already spent 4 days living at the foot of Mount Robson, the Canadian Rockies’ tallest peak (3,954m above sea level).

I want to tell you about this woman; my aunt Juliet, Julie, or “Bibi” as she was known in our family. I want to tell you what I tried to tell everyone at her memorial, whilst choking back tears, my whole body trying to contain all I was feeling to no avail.