I’ve walked this trail before — but this time, it felt different.

Blue Lake sits quietly in the mountains outside Cascade, Idaho. It’s a short trail, just a mile or so, tucked among tall pines that sway gently when the wind finds them. The path winds uphill just enough to make you breathe a little harder, and then, as if as a reward, you’re greeted by a still, reflective lake cradled in a bowl of trees.

It’s not the kind of trail people brag about. In fact, years ago, someone laughed when I mentioned I wanted to backpack there. “It’s barely a hike,” they said. But I’ve learned that sometimes the smallest trails hold the biggest lessons.

This trip wasn’t about proving anything. It was about getting outside — about escaping my house, if I’m being honest. At that time, I didn’t like being home much. I told myself I just needed fresh air, that nature was my way to “heal,” but deep down I think I was running from the noise inside my own life.

So when a few women from my networking group mentioned wanting to go backpacking, I jumped at the chance. Three ladies signed up to join me. I didn’t plan much — just picked the time, the place, and told them to meet me at the trailhead. Everyone brought their own gear and food.

It wasn’t new for me to organize trips. I’d led outings before for scouts and family, so the logistics felt easy. But this one was different. This time, it wasn’t kids or seasoned hikers — it was adults looking to try something new. And for the first time, I realized I was the one people looked to for quiet reassurance.

The day was beautiful — the kind of crisp fall sunshine that warms your back but leaves the air sharp. The forest was alive in that subtle, steady way that only mountain forests can be. You could hear the wind pushing through the pines, the soft chatter of leaves shifting against each other.

We hiked, set up camp, and spent the afternoon talking — women getting to know each other, laughing, sharing stories, and rediscovering what it means to slow down.

I found myself balancing an invisible line: wanting to teach and help, but not wanting to come across as a know-it-all. There’s a fine art in sharing knowledge without stealing someone’s learning moment. I think I did okay.

Looking back, this trip taught me how to lead differently — with quiet confidence instead of control. It gave me the foundation to guide more women later, with intention and empathy. But I didn’t know that then.

The next morning, I had to leave early. A meeting waited for me back in the “real world,” so I packed up before sunrise while everyone else still slept, and began the climb back up the hill alone.

The air was cold and perfectly still. The world hadn’t yet woken up — no birds, no cars, just me and the sound of my boots on the trail. I paused often, breathing it all in. The darkness wasn’t heavy; it was peaceful.

And then, somewhere along that path, I remembered another night — years before — when I had hiked another stretch of trail with my friend Jamie. Back then, we were scared. We’d been photographing the stars and stayed out too long. Every sound made us jump. At one point, we ran, our hearts pounding, convinced that glowing eyes in the dark meant something dangerous was near. When we reached the car, it felt like safety, like home.

But this time was different.

This time, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t even rushing. I stopped to look up at the stars — brilliant and sharp against the black sky. The kind of stars you only see when you’re far from everything else.

And in that moment, I realized how much I had changed.

Standing there, in the quiet, I felt a deep calm I hadn’t known before. I wasn’t the same woman who ran through the dark, afraid of what she couldn’t see. I wasn’t the same woman who didn’t know what it meant to escape to the outdoors.

I was walking back to my car alone, confident, and content. The darkness didn’t scare me anymore. It felt like home too.

If I could speak to that earlier version of myself — the one who was afraid, unsure, and just trying to find her place — I’d tell her this:
Everything is going to be okay. Your fears will subside. One day, you’ll walk a trail and realize you’ve grown into the woman you once needed.

That realization — that quiet, unremarkable walk back to the car — was the moment I came full circle.

So, if you’ve ever felt intimidated by the idea of backpacking — or really, by doing anything new — I want you to know something: there’s no perfect way to learn. There are no wrong questions to ask. You don’t need to know everything before you start.

Every experience teaches you something. Every mistake is a step forward. And the fear you feel now? It won’t always be there.

Whether your “Blue Lake” is a short trail near home or a dream you’ve been putting off, take the first step anyway. You’ll figure it out. You’ll grow. You’ll look back one day and realize you’re no longer the woman who runs from the dark — you’re the one who walks through it calmly, head held high, taking in the stars.

And when you do, I’ll be here — cheering for you from somewhere under the same Idaho sky.

Keep the adventure going, mama. If you loved this, you’ll also enjoy family-friendly day hikes near Boise and our no-stress car camping checklist—quick reads that make your next outing even easier.