“Spring has come at last. All the cold winter days are passed.”

— Quote engraved on a bench in Sugarloaf State Park 

Recently, I hiked a cherished trail and held the hands of my past, present, and future selves.

A decision I made six years ago has made all the difference.

Sugarloaf State Park stretches across part of the Mayacamas Mountain range in Sonoma County, California. Like a vast emerald saddle, the park cradles wildflowers, waterfalls, redwoods and firs. An array of wildlife, including bears and mountain lions make the park their home. 

It is a chilly, misty early spring morning when I set off down the trail. I am happy to be walking by myself. Other than my footsteps on the hard-packed dirt and the the twirling of a Red-winged Blackbird in the distance, it is quiet. To my right, a meadow carpeted with dewy grass slopes northward, ending in a towering craggy rock face far above. A gnarled oak, dripping with lichen and lacy Spanish moss, beckons at the top of the slope. Turning off, I heed the oak’s call and head up a faint deer passage. 

While I climb, I wonder how many times I have visited the park, and walked these trails. My first visit would have been at age six, when my family moved into a house nestled amongst the vineyards in the valley below. Throughout my formative years there were camping trips with my Brownie troop, hikes with my parents, and stargazing at the Robert Ferguson Observatory. It was in these friendly mountains that my love for nature was cemented.

Later, after moving away, I visited the park with city friends, my now husband, and eventually my children. Further up the trail grow the same blackberry bushes that produced the fruit that smeared across my lips and pricked my fingertips as a child.

Once, in my early 30s, while living in San Francisco, I camped solo at one of the park’s sites and slept through an overnight rainstorm. I woke to a partially soggy sleeping bag and a swollen creek a few feet from my head. That visit was also memorable for another reason—I had experienced a gripping panic attack (my first) while driving to the park in hectic Bay Area traffic. Pulling off to the side of the 101 Freeway at rush hour on a Friday is not something I would recommend, but I was desperate for peace. It would be easy to say that the stresses of my professional and personal life at the time contributed to that experience, but that would be a lie. In truth, before getting into the car, I’d gotten way too high. 

At the top of the sloping hill, I look out across the ridge and remember the times I visited this park as an adult under the influence. My road to sobriety has been paved with a need for clarity, for telling myself the truth. Without relying on substances I’m happier, more free, less caught up in my many faults. More aware of my many, many blessings. Loathe to mistreat myself.

Recently, I wrote the following about striving for sobriety in a letter to a friend; “If you’ve been working hard to cultivate your deeper awareness of the world around you, to tend to the unspoken by being more honest with yourself, to respond to the direction of your heart/gut, then your actions and decisions can naturally flow from this sacred intention. Letting go of the internal struggle is a relief and frees up mental space. The internal push/pull, the self-incrimination can dissolve like the mist on the Pacific.”

In front of me, green hills resonate against the azure blue of the sky. Gratitude for the calm clarity I feel washes over me. I have deep reverence for this land; the trees, birds, grasses, butterflies, flowers, clear-running creeks, moss, lichen, and even the mud. Today I am seeing the place through new eyes, unencumbered by any influence other than the peace of the morning. 

Veering off the deer trail, I find a creek I’ve never seen before. Perching on a rock, enchanted, I listen to the musical sound of the water moving across mossy rocks. It strikes me how much has happened since I plucked those childhood blackberries, both in the park and in my own life. 

In 2020, the Glass Fire devastated 75% of the vegetation in Sugarloaf. Today, evidence of the fire still lingers in pockets darkened by ashes. After closing for a stretch, the park survived, and life sprouted anew. Trees have shed limbs and grown new ones, grass has sprouted, wildflowers have bloomed, animals have died. New ones have been born. 

2020 was a big year for me, too. Almost 50, newly sober, I navigated (truthfully, mostly bumbled ) through the pandemic. For me, this included anxiety attacks, homeschooling, unemployment, a concussion, and the death of my beloved father. Like the park, I came out the other side, a little singed, but still here, and stronger for it all.

Since then parts of me have healed and sprouted anew (my writing practice, for instance). Other parts have dropped away (I released more than one addiction). There is renewed appreciation for my resources, talents, and privilege. Landing at midlife, solidly on my feet, feels like a gift. My past is acknowledged and appreciated. My future stretches out like an unexplored mountain range, full of fresh adventure and promise. 

Heading back down the slope, I reconnect with the main trail, eventually arriving at my favorite scenic overlook. Slightly out of breath, I stand at the bench and give thanks to the thoughtful soul who put it there. The view is what I imagine the afterlife will look like.

The past and future will take care of themselves, as they always do. I’ve learned that the most important thing is this very moment—the present one. The warmth of the sun on my upturned face, the gentle wind in my hair, the embrace of this place. 

 We’re still here, alive and renewed. The park, and me.