✦ Hiking Club – Kalamoir Regional Park ✦

 I arrived at Kalamoir Regional Park just as the morning was shaking off sleep, the sky a quilt of heavy clouds and the air thick with that restless, in-between feeling. There was a hush over everything, like nature had hit the snooze button. The scent in the air was sharp and tangled—pine needles crushed underfoot, mingling with the clean, damp breath of fog. It was the kind of smell that makes you close your eyes for a second, just to see if you can taste it on your tongue. The world felt ancient, a little untamed, as if the trees and rocks were keeping old secrets and daring you to listen.

The trails themselves seemed alive, slick with beads of dew that clung to every blade of grass and drenched the leaves that carpeted our path. Each step made a muted crunch, the sound soft and quick, as if the ground was whispering back. Sometimes, we’d turn a corner and the whole landscape would tilt—one moment, we’d be gazing across Lake Okanagan, the water stretching out in a lazy shimmer, catching the faintest gleam of reluctant sunlight. The next, we’d be swallowed by the forest, the light fading into green shadows, the air thick with the hush of moss and the slow drip of water from unseen places. It was a little like stepping through doorways between worlds, each one with its own rules and silences.

There was an easy, unhurried rhythm to our group. We laughed at our own missteps, at the way mud splattered up our legs and painted strange patterns on our jackets. Sometimes, we’d just stop and let the moment settle around us, breathing in that wild, earthy perfume. The cold was persistent, brushing the back of our necks, nipping at our fingertips, but nobody seemed to mind. Somewhere off in the brush, a stream kept its own time, the sound of water finding its way through roots and rocks, reminding us that there’s always movement, even when everything feels still.

The Hiking Club is a motley crew—mud-streaked pants, mismatched socks, everyone carrying their own odd collection of worries and hopes. We weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere. Instead, we hunted for the best rock to sit on, the perfect view to lose ourselves in. Snacks were an afterthought; what mattered was the quiet company, the sense that you could just be, no explanations required. Conversations drifted between bursts of laughter and stretches of companionable silence, as if the forest itself was part of the group, nudging us to pay attention, to slow down.

By the time we made it back, our shoes were heavy with mud and our notebooks scrawled with half-finished thoughts—bits of poetry, sketches, lists of birds we couldn’t quite name. But there was a real lightness in our chests, as if the park had pressed a reset button somewhere deep inside us. Hiking here wasn’t just about moving your body; it was a kind of gentle meditation, a practice in noticing. The world felt chaotic and beautiful all at once, but up here, surrounded by trees and fog and the easy shuffle of friends, it was easier to remember that peace is something you can find, even if you have to get a little lost to do it.

✦ Mood: Mind adrift in the mist, boots streaked with green and brown, spirit unburdened, carrying just a little more light than before ✦