Some moments at Cedar Creek with my siblings and their other halves on New Year’s Eve, and with my dear friend Bek a couple of days earlier on a 39ºC afternoon.

A sunset summit up a Canmore classic to celebrate Autumn’s 2nd birthday.

A collection of images from camping weekends in July. I cherish these days and nights outdoors—sleeping in a tent next to waterfalls, reading in a softly-rocking hammock, having fireside conversations and reconnecting, once more, to the real essence of what it means to be human.

It’s been five years since I left Australia. I swapped +30ºC for -30ºC, beaches for mountains, sea for snow. Five years is too long not to hug my family; to swim in saltwater; to feel sand between my toes; to wake up to the cacophony of birds celebrating the dawn of a new day.

On bringing home Autumn, my 3 month old Australian Shepherd. I named her Autumn after the season in which she would come into my life; a season that holds significance for many a reason.

On July 1st, J & Freya drove 3,200km away to move to Ontario—and took two very large pieces of my soul with them. This was our last hike together in the mountains, on the summer solstice, Sunday, June 20th, 2021.

A few weeks ago, J, Freya & I spent a weekend off-the-grid at Mt. Engadine. We left the laptops at home, bringing only our books, my camera and our phones. The last time we were here was about a week before the pandemic really “started"—before life in lockdown, in March 2020. Freya was just 6 months old.

As I write this, summer is a distant memory. The sun bids us adieu before 6pm; the mountain peaks are snow-covered once again; and the temperature gauge flirts above and below 0ºC.

On the last weekend of June, we packed two coolers, a couple bags, our camping gear and our dog into the back of our car and made our way to Ontario to visit Justin’s family and the farm. We drove over 3,400km through three provinces across four-and-a-half days to get there.

Halfway through 2020, the summer we spend most of the year waiting for arrives. It brings with it the full weight of joyful promises and optimistic mountain objectives from summers past, and our muscles ache not from bracing ourselves against winter’s bitter chill, but from throwing ourselves wholeheartedly into the warmest days we’ll have all year.

A window into our lives at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Albeit true, it is cliché to say that the world has changed since I initially had this post sitting in my drafts, when January & February passed us by, but March seemed to last forever.

Being wholehearted and unequivocal dog lovers, we had been waiting for the right time to have a dog. Feeling more settled in our jobs and in our lives, half-joking conversations and casual searches soon turned into more serious and fervent efforts (plus a few rounds of “are we really doing this?”) to find our dog.

The weekend before Christmas we went to cut down our first Christmas tree. When we originally planned this day, we had no idea we would also be joined by our new pup, Freya, and J’s father, who came for an impromptu pre-Christmas visit. It made our day in the woods with friends, coffee and a fire all the more special.

We don’t ever get too much of the in-between seasons in the Rockies, but when fall does arrive, we have a couple of weeks to savour the golden yellow larch trees before their needles drop and signify the beginning of winter. Their needles turn with the first frost, going from green to yellow before becoming bare. We went on a leisurely and thankfully warm walk with our dear friends’ dog, Hobbit to mark the occasion and to enjoy the splendour.

In mid-August, we visited J’s parents’ farm in Ontario. A long-awaited visit, the warmth, humidity, lush green pastures and utter tranquility was a welcome break from the relentless rain, tourist hubbub and parched mountain air.

Living wholeheartedly in the mountains. One day, this place will no longer be home, but everything I have learnt from the woods, the silent rock, the ancient fossils, the glacial streams and the resilient alpine wildflowers will always be with me.

“Trust the timing of your life”. I had written this as a note to myself in the spring of 2018, feeling trapped in the throes of uncertainty. A little more than a year later, I dance between knowing I have learnt the lesson, and feeling as if I have a long way to go.

A weekend away to mark our first year together; a year that challenged us individually and also as a couple, but brought great joy and growth with it.

A long drive a couple of hours north during a rare day off together, listening to podcasts that spark meaningful conversation. We get to the lake we’re looking for and we gaze down, down, down into the depths of its glacier green, its fractal white, its crystallised air. Methane from decaying plant matter froze as it rose to the surface, making art of winter’s fierce, icy grip.