West Maroon Trail (#1970), Crested Butte and Aspen– Colorado, U.S.A. I think she’s there–my niece, in the back of my mind–when I set out in the cold rain and mist, darkness melting into silver daylight, sticky mud sucking at my boots.

The weather could be better, I think, pulling a poncho over my raincoat to protect the camera dangling awkwardly against my hip. Pruney fingertips remind me that I’ve forgotten my gloves more than a hundred miles away, at home in the hallway closet.

The avalanche that barrels down the mountain and blocks the road to the East Fork Trailhead each spring is still there. Winter weather came heavy and late this year, they say, and that plug of slippery, packed snow and leaves isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Gingerly, I walk across, careful not to get too close to the edge. I remember that I’ve forgotten my trekking poles in my car. I have no idea how greatly I will regret this by day’s end and for weeks to come. Still, I imagine that I am an explorer, dauntlessly crossing the wilderness, out to prove something–to myself and to her.

My first true solo hike–eleven miles from Crested Butte to Aspen, over West Maroon Pass at 12,490 feet above sea level–to experience the famed wildflowers, no doubt, but also to test my limits over a long distance and on steep terrain in thin air,  and to show her what women are made of.

I often feel like she’s there, watching, when I do these things, the things we praise boys and men for doing: striking out alone; being physically strong and mentally tough; chatting up strangers; losing the trail and knowing how to regain it; crossing icy rapids on bare feet; doing me, unequivocally, unapologetically, and paying my own way. I see her seeing me and I feel enormous responsibility. And pride. See, I say, women do this too.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?” -Mary Oliver
For her thirteenth birthday, I make her a photo album of the women in our family, the four generations preceding her. I want her to see us at our best: smart, fun-loving, adventurous, courageous and strong, accomplished, independent, and yes, beautiful too. I want her to know the women who made her, that we move mountains when we need to, and sometimes, we hike them.  I want her to understand that she has a place among us, which only she can define. It is up to her, and her alone, to decide what she will do with her “one wild and precious life.” I hand the album to her along with a glittery, purple birthday card that praises her budding creativity and urges her to forget coloring outside of the lines; draw your own.

Beyond the trailhead, the narrow mountain pass looms above in the distance. On the other side, a majestic valley, Crater Lake, and the Maroon Bells await. The sun peaks through for a moment, and I realize that I have forgotten my cap. Spread out before me is a rolling meadow of flowers–yellows and whites, purples and oranges and pinks. Chest-high, they grow densely as far as the eye can see, heads lifted proudly, facing the sun. Like my niece–beautiful, resilient, and splendidly wild.