Not that you were wondering, but we are still snowshoeing over here! The ability to get out into the forest, especially a snow-covered one, has been invigorating! The mix of what we know and love, being outside in a new season, learning to use new gear, and sharing it with others has been so fulfilling.

This recent trip was a special one. We loaded up my parents and headed up to Mt. Hood.

A little backstory: I was born and raised outside of Portland in a suburban community called Gresham. My childhood consisted of bikes, playgrounds, and basketball courts. We lived in a neighborhood where it was safe and my parents expected my brother and I to head out mid-morning during the summer and not make it back home from our adventures until supper. We repelled the opposing army’s attacks from a fort in our backyard. I played some NBA 2K level basketball games at the local playground, smashed a few windows, hit jaw-dropping homers across the street into the neighbor’s house, and cruised around showing off the new bikes we received at Christmas.

But by far, my favorite moment of the summer was our annual camping trip to Lost Lake. My dad, brother, and I would load up our family’s green Ford pickup truck, wave goodbye to my mom, and head off for a few nights of dude stuff. The moment we hit Highway 26, you could feel the adventure start. My dad would put a cassette of some Christian rock band into the tape player, roll the windows down, and we would serenade the passing cars with our horrible karaoke.

I could write a whole series of blogs about those summers spent at Lost Lake, and I probably will, but for today’s story, this is where my love of nature and all things outdoors began. Mt. Hood holds a special place in my heart, as it holds the first forests I hiked through and the first lakes I swam and fished in. I learned much about life, how to camp, appreciate nature, and appreciate a flame-grilled hot dog at Lost Lake.

When we drive down to see my parents, crossing the I-205 bridge and looking left down the mighty Columbia flowing right into the heart of Mt. Hood, I cannot help but smile. It always feels like coming home.

Now back to our snowshoeing adventure with my parents. On Saturday morning, we loaded into our truck for that special drive up the mountain. I could not help but feel nostalgic as we filled the bed of our Tacoma with gear to show my parents a new way of exploring outside. It was a special moment to feel the passing of the torch, the student now becoming the teacher.

Towering pines blurred as we sped past, their snow-laden branches reaching out like icy fingers. The air was crisp and clean, and the only sound was our ooh’s and aah’s as we took in the views. The sun peeked through the trees, casting long shadows on the snow-covered landscape. We gasped as Mt. Hood emerged from behind a bend, its snow-capped peak gleaming in the sunlight. It felt so close, as if we could reach out and touch it, yet it continued to loom on the horizon, a majestic giant watching over us.

As we pulled into the Frog Lake Trail parking lot, I was reminded of why I love the PNW. Subaru’s, Tacoma’s, and various other 4X vehicles are stacked together as cold gear-clad individuals pull different ways to traverse the snow from their trunks and head up the trail. From people loaded down to cold weather camp over the holiday weekend to families with young kids looking for a hill to sled, everyone was excited to be outside in the sun and on the mountain.

My dad, bundled in my grandpa’s weathered Woolrich coat, practically vibrated with energy. He was a boy again, eyes wide with wonder, eager to scout the trail. He reminded me of a determined boy scout setting off into the woods for the first time. He helped my mom adjust her snowshoes, his hands quick and sure, then disappeared down a side trail, intent on discovering the frozen expanse of Frog Lake. He returned a few minutes later, breathless and grinning, with a detailed report on the lake’s condition – “Frozen solid!” Watching him, I realized that the thrill of exploring the outdoors was deeply ingrained in our family’s DNA.

My mom stood at the trailhead, hesitant in her borrowed snowshoes. Seeing her there brought to mind old family photos of my grandparents, bundled in furs, trekking through the snowy Yukon on their mission trips. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the trail. Her first few steps were a bit wobbly, but she quickly found her rhythm, navigating the packed snow with increasing confidence. Growing up, my mom hadn’t been much of an outdoorswoman, so witnessing her embrace this new challenge filled me with a sense of pride.

Seeing my parents geared up and ready to explore felt like a beautiful homage to their parents, a legacy of adventure passed down through generations. As we set off down the trail, the crunch of our snowshoes echoing in the stillness, I felt a profound sense of connection – to my parents, to my grandparents, and to the natural world surrounding us. Sunlight filtering through the trees painted the snow with a soft, beautiful glow. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine. We were immersed in a “thin space,” a moment where the boundaries between heaven and earth seemed to blur. These are the moments we cherish, the moments that make life truly worth living. And we’re committed to finding and creating more of them.