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There were stretches of 2025 when I felt every ounce of the effort I’ve put into staying strong at 73. That night in August—up high, miles from the nearest road—I dragged my bag out under the stars and just watched. The Milky Way was there—clear, unbroken, immense. It was just stars, but it felt like being seen by something older than time.

Ridge found his legs this year. Watching him mimic Jess and Hayley—clumsy but determined—it hit me how life keeps moving whether you're paying attention or not. The seasons didn’t ask if I was ready. They just came. And in between the trail miles and the hard-earned campfire meals, I kept finding that strange, stubborn joy. I’m still telling stories in schools as a volunteer—one of the best things in my life. Dancing at the Grizzly Rose—sweaty, fast, loud—remained another. It gave me connection. It reminded me I’m still here.

But not all of 2025 was wide skies and trail magic. On April 19th, I carried Beau into the hospital and didn’t bring him home. That was the worst day. The quiet afterward wasn’t just silence—it had mass. It rearranged the air in the house. I kept expecting to hear his paws, that soft huff he made when he was ready to go. The ache of his absence didn’t soften with miles.

His last backpacking trip loops in my head. He moved slow, but he kept going—because he didn’t know how to quit. And at night, he’d still find the energy to run out of the tent barking into the dark, clearing the critters like he’d done his whole life. That kind of loyalty sticks. And it hollows you out when it goes.

In early June, I took a trek west with Amy—just the two of us for most of it, but her husband Jon came along for the first five days. We watched the sun drop behind the cliffs at Laguna Beach, red and orange above the white sea foam. It was just the two of us kayaking into the sea caves off the Channel Islands, cliffs rising sharp and high around our small boat. Then Amy and I spent five days in Monterey, riding bikes, watching sea otters float in the kelp, and slipping into the Aquarium like it was a second home. Our memberships paid for themselves by the third day. We visited Pt. Lobos, Carmel, Moss Landing.

Right after the West Coast trip I came across a beautiful litter of border collie pups on Craigslist. I knew Jess was going to need a companion, so within a couple of hours I was out in Bennett picking a classic black and white one. Ridge joined our family at just six weeks old, and was molded by Jess and Hayley. He went on three backpacking trips above timberline before August, then later a trip to Montana and Beartooth Pass. A mountain dog in training.

Then, in August, Hayley was gone. It still doesn’t feel entirely real. What I go back to most is that slow, steady walk she took to the far end of the yard and the way she settled herself under the apple tree, as if saying goodbye without noise.

I didn’t numb out. I didn’t get better. I just didn’t quit. The grief stayed. But Jess and Ridge gave me somewhere to place my love.

Later in the year, I went to Bunaken, then Siau Island, Indonesia. The whole place buzzed with color—lava glowing at night, black sand warm underfoot, fruit markets shouting at sunrise. I camped on white-sand beaches and swam in blue water off uninhabited islands. I also saw the Milky Way there, 8,000 miles from home. I felt part of it, not like a tourist, but like someone who had wandered into the right story.

So what did it feel like, getting through this year? Grief was never the end of the story. It just became part of the terrain. I walked through it with Ridge bounding ahead, Beau in memory, Hayley in the wind. I saw stars burn in the Rockies and coral sway in turquoise water. On that island, alone but not lonely, I saw the earth at its most breathtaking—and realized I was still capable of wonder. Of love. Of staying open. Even after everything.

Beau and I, harmonizing in the wonderful acoustics of Wild Horse Window back in early March. I’m glad I didn’t know he only had a couple of months left. That would have been hard to carry in that moment. Instead, there was just the sound, the place, and the two of us together. Here’s to hoping we meet again someday.

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