When our youngest child left for college, I was looking forward to plenty of hiking to manage my grief. I love the outdoors, and moving my body while surrounded by nature has proven to be the most effective anti-depressant for me. When the weather forecast showed over 100 degrees for the next two weeks, I was livid. Hiking in extreme heat is never a great idea. But without hiking, how would I survive my first weeks as an empty nester?

After sulking around the house for a few days, my husband and I decided to try a sunrise hike. Usually, I hiked after dropping the kids at school, and I’d never left for a hike in the dark.

Our favorite local trail, Santa Susana State Historic Park, is located in suburban Chatsworth, California, in the San Fernando Valley. The entrance to the park is a dirt lot the same size as the other modest lots in the neighborhood. My first impression: Pass. But beyond the nondescript entrance, the path leads into a tree tunnel. Within minutes, we arrived at a stunning vista, with dramatic rock formations and desert flora.

Even in darkness, the temperature was in the mid 70s, but without the blazing desert sun, it felt comfortable and cool. We trudged along with the singing of California Thrashers and Bushtits and our footsteps on dirt the only sounds.

What most intrigued me about hiking at dawn was the prospect of seeing wild animals. There is so much to love about hiking— trees, birdsong, wildflowers, waterfalls, streams— but my favorite thing is the animals. Before sunrise, I knew we wouldn’t see any sunbathing lizards, but I was hopeful we might see a snake. Dusk and dawn are allegedly the best times for snake sightings, but on this day, the snakes eluded me. As the only humans on the trail, we were seemingly the only living things in that vast landscape.

Then, the sandy path ahead shifted, and a piece of the trail seemed to separate. As my vision adjusted, I saw three coyotes scamper up a hill, then stop to survey us. This is why I hike! Coyotes, so often reviled by others, are beloved to me. I love dogs and, well… a dog is a dog is a dog.

Every hike leaves me calmer and happier than when I started, and this one was no exception. With more heat in the forecast, I anticipate many future sunrise hikes.

Who builds something like that in a place almost no one can reach, and why?

I ask myself a similar question about the wooden boardwalk beneath my feet as I walk through a fir forest toward an alpine lake. It took me three hours to drive from my home in Clark Fork, Idaho, to the Roman Nose Lakes Trail in Bonners Ferry. Much of the way was up a narrow, bumpy gravel road, suitable for four-wheel-drive trucks and big-tired ATVs.

I spent a lot of time in the mountains this summer. I always wore long pants so the shrubs along the trails wouldn’t scratch my legs. I was glad when the pathways weren’t blocked by fallen trees. This wide wheelchair-friendly walkway feels alien. However, it is here for a good reason.

There are three alpine lakes viewable along this four-mile hike. In the 80s and early 90s, people drove straight to the first lake, parked along its shore, and camped. Erosion weakened the shoreline, where I now photograph clear glacial melt. The boardwalk protects it.

I pull up a map on my phone. The trail ahead leads to a group campsite built in 1995. It, along with a parking lot built away from the water, also reduced damage and let vegetation regrow, like the nearby yarrow, now brown as fall sets in.

To reach the other two lakes, I backtrack to the parking lot. There are only a few vehicles, mine and two others, just enough to hide the trail marker. I laugh when I finally spot it and get on the Timberline Loop Trail, cross a bridge. Soon, the man-made walkway gives way to soft ground. Icy frost and a few patches of snow spot the area; the October morning sun isn’t quite warm enough to melt it.

About a mile in, I see a sign. It indicates left for a loop, right for the lakes. I go right. Step across white granite boulders. Gaze out at the yellow larch in the distant Purcell Mountain range. For a moment, I lose my way; there are no cairns, no clear path on the rock slabs. A teenager passes, carrying a fly-fishing rod. I follow him and reenter the forest. The lake is less than a quarter mile farther.

The water is a translucent green, like an old soda bottle. I can see every stone on the floor of the cirque. No fish swim near as the boy casts.

From there, the final lake is a mile away. The largest. A blue lagoon within walls of talus rock. A few tents sit in the woods along the shoreline; smoke swirls from the ashes of a morning campfire. I step quietly. Farther along the trail, I look across the water and up above the tree line, where a giant rock rises like a moose’s snout. It’s Roman Nose Peak.

I pass more hikers as I begin my return journey. A boy huffs as he comes up a hill toward me. The rucksack on his back looks like it weighs more than he does. He isn’t smiling, but the tall, big-boned man behind him grins.

Soon, I am crossing the bridge again. Trucks fill every space and line the road leading out.

I think again about that monolith. It was torn down. Too many people traveled through the desert to see it, raising concerns that they would damage nearby Native American petroglyphs.

One man-made object where it doesn’t belong causes harm; another, like the wooden walkway, helps, controlling where and how we step.

JUST THE FACTS: Roman Nose Lakes, Bonners Ferry, Idaho

• Distance: 4 miles (total out and back)

• Estimated Time: ~ 2.5 hours

• Elevation Gain: 711 feet

• Key Highlights: Three alpine lakes in a fir forest. Views of Purcell Mountains and Roman Nose Peak. First lake is wheelchair accessible.

• Difficulty: Moderate. Hey – the hike isn’t too tough, although footing is tricky in a place or two. But the drive in is rough. Especially if you take the wrong path. Follow the route toward Snow Creek Road. Ignore GPS directions that take you toward McArthur Lake or Ruby Creek Road – that way becomes deeply rutted and impassable about 3 miles from the trailhead.

Call for Comments: Have you visited Roman Nose Lakes? Were you impressed by the trail? Share your stories and tips in the comments, or submit to Readers’ Hike.

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It’s an edible bolete mushroom. It differs from others in this variety because its golden cap is slimy and can cause an upset stomach if the skin isn’t peeled off. Nonetheless, it’s a favorite food of squirrels. Dropped, forgotten mushroom leftovers of this sort are sometimes spotted hanging from tree branches.

It’s a chilly morning despite the sunshine of October. We’ve just started our hike up Lakeview Mountain Trail in Priest Lake, Idaho. I feel a little guilty making Ken stop in the cold, but it is mushroom hunting season, and I want to capture my find.

I was a child the first time I went on a mushroom hunt. I was with my grandparents; it was a fall afternoon in Connecticut sometime in the late 1980’s. I rolled my eyes when my grandfather exclaimed in excitement at the sight of orange, seashell-shaped fungus on a log. I yawned as he cut it away from the wood with a knife, and my grandmother described the soup she would make.

Back then, I’d rather have been doing a thousand other things than walking through the woods looking for fungi.

I look at Ken. “Thanks for waiting,” I say, putting the camera back in my pocket. I pull my hoodie over my ears as we walk on.

The trail is wide, but all up, up, up. I warm. Spot something large and white in the duff. I stop again. Dust it off. Is it the much-desired Matsutake, which can retail from $40 to $60 a pound? It doesn’t smell like dirty socks, so probably not. Might be a poisonous Amanita.

I snap another picture.

Ken gets into it too, pointing at a bouquet-shaped fungus lying among fallen pine needles.

We are delighted with each new mushroom, with its colors and shapes. It is as though we are on an Easter Egg hunt as we trek through the conifer forest, past trees draped with Old Man’s Beard lichen.

After nearly two miles, we reach a sign. Viewpoint and an arrow point right. We head that direction and soon look out over Priest Lake, the Selkirk Mountains, and miles of forest. No roads. No buildings. No cars. Not even a boat.

“I think this might be the trail’s destination,” I say as we turn back, thinking about what I’d read online.

“I think the peak is about another tenth of a mile up,” Ken says.

He’s right. The trees obscure the view here, but I can make out Gunsight Peak and the snow-dusted summit of Mt. Roothaan. I step into the bush, wondering whether another opening lies beyond the treeline ahead.

“Be careful,” Ken calls, then follows me.

I see moose droppings on the ground. Turn around. “There’s no other opening,” I say, glancing again at the distant mountain tops. It’s lovely, but as we descend, the light dimming early with the onset of fall, I know the mushrooms are what made me glad we came.

JUST THE FACTS: Lakeview Mountain Trail, Priest Lake, Idaho

• Distance: 4 miles (total out and back)

• Estimated Time: ~ 2.5 hours

• Elevation Gain: 1407 feet

• Key Highlights: View of Priest Lake, the Selkirk Mountains, and miles of green forest. Mushrooms in October, but only pick them if you’re an expert. Limited parking at the trailhead: about 5 spots.

• Difficulty: Moderate. An uphill hike, but a clear, wide path. It verges on easy.

Call for Comments: Have you walked the Lakeview Mountain Trail? Are there other hikes in Priest Lake you’d recommend? Share your stories and tips in the comments, or submit to Readers’ Hike.

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22 pounds of muscle. Blue-gray fur. Green eyes. She killed my favorite hen. Carried the bird proudly between her teeth.

The carpenter who built our deck mistook her for a cougar prowling our property line at sunset.

Large. A killer.

Afraid of her own shadow.

My 2-pound kitten pitter-patters toward her. Big Kitty flees.

My husband steps near. Ears go flat, tail down. She runs.

I approach. Whisper, “Hey Kitty, Kitty.” She jumps. Scurries away.

But when Hubbie is out, and Little Kittie is asleep, she approaches. Sniffs. Leaps onto the couch, inches away. My hand strokes slowly. She purrs.

Like, literally, I’m phobic about it. If it weren’t for Ken, LL Bean catalogs, USAA advertisements, and the local Penny Saver would pile up in my box, making it hard for the mail carrier to shove more junk in.

As a child, I’d run to the mailbox, eager to c…

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On Oct. 5, the "Twixters" group of the Sandpoint Monday Hikers hiked to Caribou Lake in the Selkirks, west of the Upper Pack River.

The last bit of road up Caribou Creek was very rough with limited parking at the end of the road. The trail starts with a crossing of Caribou Creek. It is a UTV/ATV trail about 2 miles from the parking area to Caribou Lake, with about 1000 feet of elevation rise to the lake. It is an out-and-back trail and considered moderate, with only one fairly steep section with big rocks.

The weather was perfect and there are some great views along the trail and the lake is gorgeous. It is a circular lake a couple hundred yards across, showing a lot of fall color around it and a scree field of bare rocks on the south end. We definitely plan to go back soon!

Last Friday, within its mottled golden walls, I watched Shovels & Rope perform their folk-rock hit “Birmingham,” which won the Americana Music Association (AMA) song of the year award in 2013. A crowd danced at the foot of the stage, black shadows beneath the dim glow of amber lights suspended from a plaster ceiling.

The Panida (rhymes with Canada) is a Spanish-Mission-style masterpiece that opened in 1927 as a vaudeville house and movie theater. Built by F.C. Weskil and named for the people of the PANhandle of IDAho, it nearly disappeared to a wrecking ball in the early 1980s before the community raised the money to buy and restore it as a nonprofit.

Today, in addition to performances by well-known artists such as country singer Bonnie Raitt and comedian/ventriloquist Andy Gross, it’s also home to local talent. For example, in a building adjacent to the main stage called “The Little Theater,” the comedy “Sand-POINT BREAK,” a farce about wakeboarders in northern Idaho inspired by the movie Point Break, was a hit.

What’s more, the Panida is a frequent stop on the film festival circuit. I’ve attended the Fly Fishing Film Tour, Banff Centre Mountain, and the Wild & Scenic Film Festival. On those occasions, my hands smelled of buttered popcorn from the lobby as I sipped wine and watched the wilderness unfold on a wide screen.

When Shovels & Rope performed their encore, “She Gets Down,” I drank Crown Royal and Coke while stomping my feet to the beat. That’s right. I go up hills. Down them, and sometimes dance at night in a little theater called “The Panida.” Check it out.

Then I heard a voice behind me.

“Careful. It can bore into your skin. Eat your flesh.”

I turned around and looked at my two brothers, ages eight and nine.

The one who had spoken had a serious look on his face. The other nodded in agreement.

“Cannot,” I said, putting the insect down and slowly backing away.

This week, I thought of that moment while walking the Deep Creek Trail in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, when I spotted a woolly bear in the grass.

Around me, cottonwood trees and paper birch with golden leaves danced in the breeze. Two young bald eagles soared over the meadow in the distance, spreading their wings like sails, and letting the wind carry them.

But it was the woolly bear that captured my thoughts.

The plump little creature was as much brown as it was black. Folklore says, more brown means a mild winter, more black a tough one.

Are we going to have a so-so winter? I wondered.

Even if it’s a hard one, it wouldn’t bother Mr. Woolly. This kind of caterpillar produces glycerol, an antifreeze-like substance. When it’s cold, he’ll crawl under a leaf or a log and freeze, becoming a black-and-brown, bristled ice cube. The glycerol prevents tissue damage.

When spring arrives, he’ll thaw, crawl around, and feed on grass, dandelion leaves, and nettles. Then spin a cocoon and transform into the Isabella Tiger Moth.

I knelt down; took a picture.

The color of the woolly bear’s coat really does provide useful information: its age. It sheds its exoskeleton as often as six times before it begins to transform into a moth. The brown band lengthens with each shedding, so the oldest woollies have little black.

My bear was, apparently, middle-aged. Another mid-lifer enjoying the trail.

I walked away without touching it. The bristles can irritate the skin. My darn brothers were on to something, even if they didn’t know it.

JUST THE FACTS: Deep Creek Trail, Kootenai National Wildlife Refuge, Bonners Ferry, Idaho

• Distance: 4 miles (total out and back)

• Estimated Time: ~ 2 hours

• Elevation Gain: 26 feet

• Key Highlights: Cottonwood and birch color, Selkirk views, bald eagles over the meadow, and woolly bears in the grass. Moose country. Serene along Deep Creek.

• Difficulty: Easy. Wide, flat trail. Good place for Grandma and Grandpa to walk as the grandkids run.

Call for Comments: Have you walked the Deep Creek Trail? What wildlife did you spot? Share your stories and tips in the comments, or submit to Readers’ Hike.

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I make no apologies for feeling abject terror. There are the best and worst of times (forgive me, Charles Dickens.)

My best friend, David, a writer like myself, and I, had a splendid day hiking the Grand Canyon. We were here with a group, but had separated from the others so that we could have our own personal experience.

The summer day was a dead heat; tan and brown grasshoppers leapt like professional ballet dancers in an unchoreographed pas de deux. I swiped my face for the hundredth time with a sports-stick sunscreen; I wasn’t going into my senior years with wrinkles from a day at the canyon.

The dirt path of the outer rim was foot-worn and parched. The sky stretched out above for a gazillion miles, a milky blue streaked with creamy white cloud striations. We drank obsessively from plastic water bottles, more thirsty after every sip. The saving grace was that, after our hike, we’d meet our group at the bus, and we’d all go to dinner, with lots of cold beer. I could almost taste the cold, spicy bite of that first sip.

As we rounded a corner of dried bushes, branches reaching out like dead skeletons, the most exquisite animal slowly sauntered down from the hill above us and blocked our path.

I stopped as my heart nearly exploded.

David, a tall, muscular man, who had never evinced a lick of fear, even when finding a huge pale yellow centipede on the roll of toilet paper in my guest bathroom, also froze in his tracks.

The animal was a large, solid bighorn sheep. It had the most amazing horns, of a light brown color that curved magnificently backward. The head was large, with gray, stubborn eyes, and a blunt white nose that looked as if it were made for battering. Possibly humans, I thought momentarily.

It eyed us with the interest of a ram who is annoyed by humans in its natural domain. As if it were bored; but a spark of excitement twitched in its eyes. Like a shark that has smelled blood miles away.

David and I looked at each other warily. The ram stayed put on the path; a narrow path that was death by falling on one side, and a hilly bluff with desiccated bushes and happy, apathetic grasshoppers on the other.

I have a high, loud scream that I inherited from my histrionic mother; and let it out as loudly as possible.

The ram did not flinch.

Next, I sang a few lines from a Mozart aria, from his opera, The Marriage of Figaro: “Voi che sapete”. I had voice lessons for years and my coloratura tones echoed in the valley, the best singer’s concert hall I had ever experienced.

The ram gazed at me as if I were an anomaly.

Next, I tried the aria with the high F, a real screamer, from Mozart’s opera, The Magic Flute: “Die Hölle Racht kocht in meinem Herzen…” [Revenge from Hell boils in my heart]. And boy, did it, now. Move, damn ram – move!

But Mr. Ram had all the time in the world.

David had had enough. He took off one tennis shoe and threw it at Big Horns.

The ram rose up on two feet and butted the rubber-heeled cloth shoe down into the valley.

We listened to hear it drop. Nothing. Gulping audibly, we were perplexed.

“Try the other shoe,” I whispered.

David obeyed, now standing in his bare, wide feet with supernatural-sized bunions. He tossed it, hard. The shoe grazed one of the big horns.

The ram just stared at us.

I became indignant; we felt trapped. When we tried to go forward, the ram backed up, as if he was going to buck us. The horns were massive.

“Shoot,” I said, admitting defeat, and sank down onto the dried brown path, all played out.

David yelled a few more times, in his bass voice, but the ram refused to budge.

By now we were sucking down water bubbles in the gnarled plastic bottles. I thought of the people back home; my mother and my two cats, Taco Belle and his brother, Brownie. I began to visualize scenes of my life, while fantasizing about a 20-ounce ice cold diet coke.

A hawk or buzzard began to circle overhead. It was black and persistent, like a hungry shark. David and I began to talk about the fun and crazy times we had spent together, all the while eyeing Big Horns. The ram stood stock-still on the path like a one-dimensional cut-out in real life.

Now the sky began to darken into the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen. Twilight is what you might call it; magic is more fitting. The milky blue sky began to turn into a vivid turquoise-Prussian blue, with magnificent lipstick-red clouds alchemizing the huge expanse. The very neon vividness of the phenomenal heavens was a masterpiece from divine artistry. We could only gaze skyward, knowing that our bus driver would be fraught with worry about our absences.

Still, the ram guarded the forward path. I would have cried, were it not for the rapture of the sky.

Suddenly, a runner came from nowhere, on the path behind the ram. He wore no shirt, only running shorts; his upper tanned torso a work by Michaelangelo. His dirty white runner’s shoes were almost glowing in the weird blue twilight.

He noticed us on the other side of the ram, trapped and desperate. He threw an empty soft drink can at the ram.

Big Horns moved, ever so delicately, then bounded away into the distance, the dried dirt on the path rising at each hoof thud as if bullets were hitting it.

The runner ran by us without a word.

We walked quickly back to the bus, the driver standing outside, peering at his watch in the dusk. The lipstick-red clouds had turned now to a vivid pink, a stark and beautiful heaven woven with Prussian blue.

“Wondered where you guys were,” the bus driver said, as we boarded the bus.

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I’ve received some great submissions, including today’s piece, “Momma’s Love on Schweitzer Mountain,” submitted by a member of The Undaunted Hiking Group of Bonner County, and “Hoodood,” by Frances Scott from Texas.

I want more!

Starting today, October 2, through October 16^th, for every hike story submitted and chosen for publication, I’ll donate $10 to the Friends of the Waterlife Discovery Center (WDC) in Sagle, Idaho, a nonprofit 501(c)(3) group.

My goal is to publish 50. Fifty matters on this Substack.

I’m an Idaho Master Naturalist. Our Pend Oreille chapter is based at the WDC, a habitat education site on the Pend Oreille River. It’s where I learned the land, water, and wildlife I write about. Master Naturalists host programs for adults and children and help maintain the grounds. That costs money. Your story can help.

Here’s how it works:

Fill out the Readers’ Hike Story Form.

Keep it simple: 100 to 400 words is perfect. Even a single paragraph + a photo works beautifully. No pressure to write an essay (but you are welcome to do so!)

I’ll read every submission. Selected stories will run as Readers’ Hikes and be featured on the Home Page. I’ll always reach out to you first before publishing.

There’s no charge to submit. Reading about the hikes is free.

Thanks to “Momma’s Love,” I donated my first $10 today!

Keep hiking and share your stories now!

I’d watched him walk for hours, his feet twisted at the ankles, penguin-like, balancing between the narrow sides of the deeply rutted soil. My joints ached with empathy and regret.

I’d pushed for this hike, even though Ken had been skeptical. He’d read that dirt bikes frequented the path, and dreaded the squealing whir of a 250 engine or teenagers hurtling toward us at top speed.

My dental hygienist said this was one of her favorite trails when she polished my teeth months earlier. She’d also told me about Gold Hill North, which Ken and I both enjoyed. So, I took her recommendation seriously.

Our trip had started well. The views of the valley below as we drove up Johnson Creek Road toward the trailhead were national park quality: fields of green broken by a glassy, winding river. The gravel-and-dirt route had recently been regraded, so although it snaked along a cliff edge, it was easy to traverse.

Parking was effortless. The area peaceful, enclosed by larch, hemlock, and pine. The only sound was the frog-throated call of a raven hidden in the tree line.

But the trail’s footing was challenging from the start. It was easier to walk alongside it, in the brush of yellowing thimbleberry leaves, than in the rocky canal.

A half-mile in, hope had glimmered; the trail flattened. Lake Pend Oreille was occasionally visible through the thick foliage. But soon the land had sloped again, then rose; with each shift, the path crumbled into deep grooves and grew more treacherous.

Our hiking sticks were more than an accessory. Pushing them into the earth like an extra set of legs was the only way to stay upright.

After two miles, we had reached the first peak and looked down on the winding channels of green marsh within the blue water of the Clark Fork Delta.

Ken has fished there for bass.

In the opposite direction sat two small islands: Pearl and Cottage.

We’ve visited them on our paddle boards. Wakes had tried to topple us as ski boats jetted past.

It was fun to stand on the mountain we had looked up at so often. I took pictures. We sipped water, then re-entered the forest and headed for the second peak, cursing the motorbikes that had carved the trail with every step.

After another mile, we reached the second viewpoint. Ahead of us: blue. The color of the sky above, except for the occasional white wisp of a cirrus cloud. The color of the water below, until rising mountain ranges interrupt. We forgot our thoughts of noisy two-strokes and twisted ankles.

Then we turned around and looked at the trail: an ugly fault in the earth.

I picked up my hiking sticks and sighed. Watched Ken begin the descent.

JUST THE FACTS: Green Monarch Ridge Trail, Clark Fork, Idaho

• Distance: 6.2 miles (total out and back)

• Estimated Time: ~ 4 hours

• Elevation Gain: 1,686 feet

• Key Highlights: Panoramic views of Lake Pend Oreille, the Clark Fork River delta, and surrounding mountains.

• Difficulty: Moderate. Not too steep, but poor trail quality makes it hard to keep your footing.

Call for Comments: Have you stumbled on Green Monarch Ridge Trail? Are there other hikes we should avoid? Share your stories and tips in the comments, or submit to Readers’ Hike.

Subscribe for practical trail info weekly, ‘Off the Trail’ personal essays, and the searchable hike index.

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The first time I went to the WDC, it was to learn about mushrooms. Art Church, a man with white hair and deep-set hound-dog eyes, reminisced about picking them with his mother as a child and taught us how to avoid the poisonous ones. Not long after, I found my first morels on Delyle Ridge.

Ken sautéed them in butter. Served them with fish.

Weeks later, I went back for a Bear Aware class taught by Idaho Fish and Game and hosted by the Idaho Master Naturalists (IMN). I practiced using bear spray while an electronic grizzly charged at me.

I returned again to learn about birds. Walked the Wetland Forest Trail and listened to them sing. Inside the educational center, a woman from the Bureau of Land Management explained that ducks can fly with half their brain asleep while the other half stays active.

Soon, I signed up to become an IMN. I began volunteering. We planted trees. We built bee motels for leafcutters and mason bees to nest in. I sold them at a plant fair, where I explained to interested buyers that mason bees don’t sting and pollinate more flowers than honey bees.

At the WDC, I’ve watched children chase butterflies across the lawn toward the pollinator garden. I’ve heard them ooh and ahh over the rainbow trout in the viewing pond. Each year, Master Naturalists teach kids to fly fish in that water.

The grounds are open year-round. The classroom is staffed only in summer, usually Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., from early June through early September. Dates shift. Idaho Fish and Game posts the current season and a self-guided tour.

These last few days of September, we selected a hike up at Schweitzer. Trees were beginning to lose their chlorophyll and to show their true colors. There were hundreds of birds chirping, which mingled with our constant, somewhat loud visiting.

These times are important to us because we can talk about anything and everything while enjoying nature: politics, family, travels, well, you name it. So you can imagine how loud 7 women can be.

As we were chatting, we came upon a large black-tailed deer doe. We were sure she would take flight, but no, our numbers and our voices didn’t scare her one bit.

Then we saw her two yearling fawns show their heads.

We commented on their beauty and were sure they would run now, but no. Momma started coming towards our formidable group. The fawns were at a loss and hung back. We took a few more steps forward; she held her ground. We inched a bit further, a little more timid this time. She came forward a bit more, staring us down.

All 7 of us stopped cold. Only then did she slowly gallop into the woods with her young ones.

She became one of the Undaunted that day.

I see a wide patch of grass near a dumpster. I park. Walk a short way. A wooden sign lists six potential destinations (including a swimming area, boat launch, and High Point Trail) and 3 sets of meaningless numbers: 71, 72, 70.

There is no indication that Idlewilde Bay Trail is nearby.

“There’s another sign down there,” I say to Ken, pointing down a path to my right. “Let’s see what it says.”

As we approach, my confusion grows. Two more trails: Upper and Lower Shoreline, and more meaningless numbers: 64, 62. Still no trace of our planned destination.

“Maybe I took a wrong turn?” I say.

“Maybe,” Ken says.

I look at my watch. Feel anxious. It is 10:00 AM. We need to finish our hike, go home, and pack for our trip to Colorado. We leave in the morning for a Cox family reunion in Estes Park outside of Rocky Mountain National Park.

“Let’s just take this and see where it goes,” I say.

Ken agrees.

We start walking south on the Upper Trail, a wide, well-graveled path lightly shaded by tall fir and larch. I imagine grandparents holding their grandchild’s hand here as they look out at Lake Pend Oreille, visible through the tree line

We walk a mile, reach the path’s end. A sign for Lower Shoreline points to a narrow downward path. We take it and turn north, back in the direction from which we came.

The trail hugs the shoreline. Plump red rose hip berries like Christmas bulbs decorate the brush. Sun reflects off gentle wakes breaking against the low bank. It’s as if we are walking along an ocean at low tide. The difference? Instead of an endless blue horizon, green mountain ranges rise from the water and enclose it to the west.

It’s a fall day, with a cool breeze, but that doesn’t stop a young mother in a bikini from walking into the water, as her tow-haired son stands atop a boulder.

“He’s the smart one,” Ken calls to the woman, who smiles as the boy laughs.

We walk on for another mile, then a little further. Most of our hikes lead to peaks with distant views. Here, I can take off my shoes and put my toes in the water. I am entranced.

“We passed where we parked,” Ken says.

“Nah,” I say, continuing on.

We reach a busy dock. Fishermen and water skiers are navigating their boats into the bay. The road leading to the dock doesn’t look familiar, which means, of course, Ken is right. We passed our entry point.

We walk up the road leading to the boat dock. I use my “Find your car” app. Within ten minutes, we’ve reached our starting point.

Ken and I discuss how I am going to explain this hike to readers. Where to start and end, what landmarks to follow.

“Tell them to park at the boat launch,” he suggests.

But I’m not entirely sure how to describe getting to the boat launch by car.

As we leave the park, I decide to stop at the Visitor Center. Get a map of the park. It might help me describe my route.

Inside the building, I hand a dollar to a park ranger, who gives me a pamphlet.

I pick it up. Open it. Flip it upside down. Turn it over. Study the lines on the map. Read the list of hikes.

“Can I answer a question?” The ranger asks.

Where is Idlewilde Bay Trail? I ask.

“There’s no such trail in the park,” she responds.

I look at her and blink. I drove over an hour in search of what I had read online was a scenic 3.4-mile shoreline trail. I assumed I had taken a wrong turn when I parked and saw no such trail mentioned on the wooden posts. The park is 4,000 acres. That seemed the logical explanation.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

This time, she blinks. Then says, “Did you read about it on AllTrails?”

“Yes.” I smile with renewed hope.

“AllTrails doesn’t work in this park.”

“Really?” I say. Impossible, I think.

“Yes. Our trails intersect. Sometimes people get confused about which trail they are on, so they take a path, give it a name, and write about it on AllTrails,” she explains.

“Oh,” I say, incredulous, as though I’ve just learned there is no Easter Bunny.

The ranger goes on to explain that the park has numerous named trails. Where the trails intersect is a post with numbers on it. The top number indicates where you are located. The bottom numbers have arrows next to them. Using a map of the park, you can choose your route, going from one named trail to another.

It’s “Choose Your Own Adventure” hiking. You need the park map to avoid route guesswork.

Back in the car, I tell Ken what I’ve learned about the nonexistent trail. He, too, is shocked.

“Wait. Do you know what this means?” I ask.

“What?”

“I can name our trail! The Jen Cox Trail!”

“Name it after me. Studmuffin Trail,” he says.

In actuality, however, thanks to the visitor’s guide, I know we walked 2.5 miles of the Beaver Bay Shoreline Loop Trail. We parked near junction 71, southeast of the Whitetail campground. If you follow the map, you could walk as far as 4 miles.

JUST THE FACTS: Beaver Bay Shoreline Loop Trail, Farragut State Park, Athol, Idaho

• Distance: Our route: ~2.5 miles / Official loop: 4 miles (round trip)

• Estimated Time: ~ 1.5 hours

• Elevation Gain: ~44 feet

• Key Highlights: Easy trail for beginners along a lovely shoreline. Buy the trail guide at the Visitor Center for $1. Don’t count on AllTrails for directions.

• Difficulty: Easy

Call for Comments: Have you hiked Beaver Bay Shoreline Loop Trail? Or others in Farragut State Park? Share your stories, tips, and local history in the comments, or submit to Readers’ Hike to have your adventure highlighted.

Subscribe for weekly hike guides, practical trail info, and ‘Off the Trail’ personal essays. Let’s build this community together.

Keep it simple — 100 to 400 words is perfect. Even a single paragraph + a photo works beautifully. No pressure to write an essay.

What to share (anything goes):

• A hike you loved and why

• How the trail made you feel stronger, calmer, or more alive

• A funny mishap, a beautiful view, or a surprising wildlife encounter

• Seasonal tips, wildflowers, or favorite local spots

• Reflections on turning 50, getting outside, or anything the mountains taught you

How to submit (super easy):

• Click HERE and fill out the Readers’ Hike Story Form.

• I’ll read every submission. Selected stories will be featured in the Reader’s Hike or in a spotlight on the Home Page. I’ll always reach out to you first before publishing.

The trails feel better when we walk them together. Whether you’re sharing a 10-mile epic or a gentle lakeside stroll, your voice matters here.

Can’t wait to read your story.

— Jen C.

We’d finished eating the pizza Ken had picked up at our favorite tavern and were playing cards when it happened. The puppy stuck his nose into Brenda’s purse, bit a twenty-dollar bill, and ran out the dog door into the backyard.

Ah, yes, the perfect way to make a good impression.

Thankfully, we retrieved the cash, and Brenda handled the incident with good humor, quickly cementing my affection for her.

Ken and I moved not long after that fun evening and have since seen little of his family, but this week we attended a reunion in Estes Park, Colorado. Although Ken and I have been married for four years, and a couple for more than twice that, I’m still the new kid on the block, worried about the impression I make on his family.

Not only am I eighteen years younger than Ken, but we’re both in our third marriages. None of his siblings (one brother and four sisters) have divorced, and all have been married for 30-plus years. I fear being like Cousin Oliver on The Brady Bunch, who joins the show in the final season and doesn’t quite fit in.

But his family is kind and welcoming. We exchange hugs. I feel especially comfortable with Brenda and Cliff, and I am happy when they join Ken and me for a hike in Rocky Mountain National Park.

Together, we trek the 4.9-mile Beaver Mountain Loop Trail. The men lead the way. They laugh and talk about fishing, politics, and the pros and cons of electric vehicles as we admire the distant mountains and watch for elk.

Brenda tells me about her children and grandchildren. She’s a chatterer, like Ken, which I appreciate because I’m often quiet and struggle to put my thoughts into words. When she falls silent, I try to encourage her with questions. I’m especially interested in learning about Ken’s parents, who passed away before I had the chance to meet them.

She shares a story about their father.

“I was on the basketball team in high school. He came to every game. Then, one game, this girl leaned on my back the whole time. Wouldn’t get off. The referee didn’t do anything. Finally, I pushed her to the ground.”

She then describes how she was benched. Their father screamed and yelled at the ref until he was kicked out.

“We told him it was best not to watch me play anymore,” she laughs.

“Which of you is most like your mother?” I ask, curious about the matriarch.

“I’m not sure. My mother was sweet, but strong.”

She goes on to describe how their mother not only raised her own six children but also took in her niece, a girl the same age as Brenda, while Ken’s uncle was going through a difficult time.

“They were such good parents,” she says. “Growing up, we were like The Brady Bunch, besides the whole blended family thing.”

Their parents married young and remained together until their father’s death.

She also describes how their father could be grumpy as he aged and the challenges of caring for their mother when she became ill.

We walk on and reach an area of downed, scarred trees. The remnants of a wildfire. Cliff stops, then walks back to us and offers Brenda a snack.

“What happened to my bromance?” Ken calls. Soon, Cliff catches back up to him.

After nearly three hours of walking past green juniper, sagebrush, and pine trees, we reach a breathtaking view of mountain peaks and conifers.

The way forward is steep. Ken and I had promised the whole hike would take only three hours, but we haven’t reached the turnaround point on the loop yet. We’d parked far from the trailhead, adding miles to our journey. We all wish we had brought more water, and we decide to turn around.

When we finally spot our rental car parked on the side of the road in the distance, we realize we can shorten our trek by cutting across a field of shrub grass. We hesitate. It’s a no-no to go off-trail, but Ken starts across, and we follow.

I trip over bitterbrush. Cliff takes Brenda’s hand as the hillside steepens, yet we reach our destination quickly.

Later, Ken explains to me his decision to cut the trail: “I was worried about Brenda. We’d gone so far, and she doesn’t complain.”

I kiss him for his sweetness.

That night, we play rummy with his oldest sister and her husband. I’ve never played before, but I win. His family hoots and hollers.

“You go, girl,” Brenda says, and smiles.

This week I wrote about a family reunion and a hike with in-laws. Old memories were shared. New memories were made. Last week, I went on the trail with members of Sandpoint Monday Hikers.

So your challenge this week is simple: Take a hike with family or friends.

It doesn’t have to be long. It doesn’t have to be a peak. A woods walk, a lakeside loop.

Notice what changes when you aren’t walking alone. Who sets the pace? What gets talked about? What stays quiet? Whether an old story surfaces or a new one starts.

When you’re back, tell us how it went.

• Who came with you?

• What made the day feel special (or unexpectedly ordinary, which can be its own kind of special)?

• What did you learn: about them, about the trail, or about yourself?

Share in the comments below, or submit a longer piece through the Readers’ Hike form if you’d like to be featured.

I can’t wait to see who you brought along.

Happy Hiking,
Jen

Click here for the Complete Index of Northern Idaho: 50 at 50 Hikes

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