TONGASS NATIONAL FOREST — I watch as the Northern Lights swallow the last breath of 2024. The green light twists and turns, weaving through the turbulence of space and time, illuminating the world’s magic.
Myself, my partner Brady, our dog Mac and a handful of our friends, hiked three miles up a mountain valley to celebrate the New Year at Dan Moller Cabin, a Forest Service backcountry retreat. We stay up for hours, mesmerized by the lights dancing among the peaks.
The cabin heater purrs as the sleepy mountains turn pink, gradually waking the world to the new year. Morning light seeps in, painting the wooden walls golden. Kazoos, glitter, bubbles and whiskey are scattered across the table beneath the monster truck-themed “Happy Birthday” banner.
My 26th lap around the sun aligns perfectly with the calendar year. I have never taken New Year’s Resolutions too seriously, but I do always try to carve out a bit of time for reflection and to think intentionally about the year ahead.
I’m the first to wake. I tiptoe past my friends, sprawled out like colorful worms in their sleeping bags. I fire up the Jetboil, brew a cup of coffee, grab my journal and step outside into the crisp 11-degree morning air. Mac follows. I curl up in my sleeping bag on the porch, overlooking the mountain valley which seems to be resting from the eventful night prior.
I flip through my journal’s coffee-stained pages; coarse sand from Carcross, Yukon Territory, spills out from the bindings, and a pressed violet flower from the Arctic Refuge marks my favorite entry of the year. New recipes, rough sketches of maps, scratchy notes from snow science and EMT classes, letters to distant friends I never sent, and backcountry trip logs lead me to my Jan. 1, 2025 entry.
As I read through my 2024 resolutions, a wave of deflation hits.
Less anxiety, less social media, less TV, less spending money, less comparison, less self-doubt. I look up to the mountains before me. “Pretty boring list,” I tell them. A blue jay chirps in agreement.
One by one, my friends begin to stir, and we each prepare our rendition of backcountry breakfast. We listen to music, play cribbage and watch Mac chase squirrels outside.
The sun peeks over the mountains inviting us out to play. I cram my feet into my snowboard boots, slap my climbing skins onto my splitboard and finish the last of my coffee.
Southeast Alaska has had a slow start to winter, to say the least. Eaglecrest Ski Area, where I work on Pro Patrol, has struggled to open most of its terrain, thanks to a seemingly endless atmospheric river. I’ve done my best to make the most of it — spending long days hiking to find snow at higher elevations. I remind myself that snowboarding, for me, is about building a relationship with the mountains rather than chasing perfect lines (though I really miss that).
I lead the skin track, my friends — and Mac — in tow. We move quietly, each lost in thought. What do I want 2025 to look like? How do I want to show up in my 26th year? My legs scream as I take another step, my mind pushing through the burning sensation in my muscles. I reach the ridgeline and the ocean unfolds before me, mountains erupting from the sea floor.
I think back to the lessons I’ve learned this past year. The mountains taught me confidence and the importance of trusting my instincts. The ocean reminded me that it feels good to try something new. The river showed me the balance between patience and persistence. The rain taught me the power of perspective. The earth has been my greatest teacher.
As I head up an icy section, my splitboard slips out from under me, sending me sprawling onto the hard-packed snow. My knee smacks into my binding hardware, and throbs as I pick myself back up and face the challenge again. This time, I focus on centering my weight, keeping it perfectly centered over my ski before pressing into it. I remind myself: slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
Looking at our low-tide snowpack is depressing. Rushing creeks deemed unpassable, rocks pepper the mountainside and blueberry bushes poke through the snow. My thoughts are interrupted by Mac sprinting in front of me, his legs can’t keep up with his stroke, as he chases his tail and manically digs himself a couple holes, in an outburst of the zoomies.
Rather than focusing my 26th lap around the sun on less TV, I want to focus on finding joy in life, no matter the surrounding circumstances. Mac is a good reminder of that.
We reach the summit as the sun crests in the sky. The base of Eaglecrest sits in a puddle of brown, on the other side of the ridgeline. I look back to what’s in front of me, three inches of new snow lay atop an edge-bale crust. Going higher always offers a better perspective.
I drop first. The snow is buttery smooth, and as I take my first big turn, I feel reconnected to my soul. Mac is right on my tail, fearlessly barreling down the steepest line. I hit a deeper pocket and kick up a cloud of white, engulfing Mac and me in a moment of bliss. For a minute, I forget about any New Year’s resolutions, self-help quotes or future goals. Instead, I am fully present in the moment — and it feels good.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond. Reach her at heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
