kitchen table of our downtown apartment, waiting for her to finish her breakfast. My eyes fluttered in exhaustion. I savored the weekends when I could sleep in and spend extra time sipping coffee before going through my notes from school.
Because of that, I hesitated to go. I was too tired to fight Mia, and though she hadn’t been running from me as much since starting preschool, my level of trust remained very low. But she looked so eagerly at me, and I saw more excitement in her eyes than I had since we got here. It was the first hot, sunny weekend, and it reminded me of the magic I’d felt when I first came in August. I stood up from the table and started packing protein bars and water bottles in a backpack. “Let’s go,” I said. I’d never seen her put her shoes on so fast.
The University of Montana sits at the bottom of a mountain—officially called Sentinel, but called “The M” by the locals, for the visible switchback trail snaking up to a large, white capital letter “M,” made from concrete. For months, I’d stared at it while walking to class, watching the tiny dots of people climb up the hill. I envied them, but I always seemed to have an excuse for not attempting it myself.
We drove to the parking lot at the base of the mountain. Several people stood at the stairs leading to the trail. They all wore proper running or walking shoes, drinking from their water bottles, and looked ready to hike the trail up the side of the mountain.
“Okay,” I said, smoothing out my cargo shorts and second-guessing my decision to wear sandals. “How far should we go?”
“All the way to the M,” Mia said. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a goal I’d set for myself the first time I visited. Like walking to the M didn’t mean climbing halfway up a five-thousand-foot mountain.
When we started out on the trail, I figured we’d make it halfway to the M before Mia would wear out, that I’d end up carrying her piggyback to the car. But she skipped around each switchback, past hikers sitting on benches to take in the view.
I watched her in disbelief, my near five-year-old daughter running up the path in her skirt and Spider-Man shoes, the arms of a stuffed giraffe snapped around her neck. She ran so fast that she passed other hikers, and then waited for me to catch up. In contrast, I huffed, dripping sweat. This was easily the hardest walk I’d done in years. I called ahead for Mia to stop, nervous she’d get to the M and slip down the slab of its surface, or just keep going over the edge. The trail and the mountain were too steep for me to see the path above. At times, I’d see Mia leaning over the edge of the trail, her little hands in fists of determination. Mine were doing the same.
When we got to the end of the trail, we sat on the top of the M, taking in the view for a few minutes before Mia stood up and announced we should keep walking. I followed her, stunned that she wanted to keep going. She seemed perfectly content to march to the top, occasionally squatting to look at ants or inside gopher holes. I urged her to drink water, to eat a blueberry Clif Bar. And we kept going up the trail.
There are several options for getting to the top of Sentinel, but we took the route that loops around the side. Even though the hike is less steep than the other trails, the climb to the very top from the backside is still intense. I had to rest every ten steps or so. Mia paused a few times with me. Maybe it was the endorphins, or the heat of the sun, but I felt fizzy with happiness. I could tell those final steps were a struggle for Mia’s little legs. She could see how tired I was.
At the summit, she raised her hands over her head and laughed. I snapped pictures of her there, dancing at the top, so far above town. Our home. We sat on the edge, the mountain sloping down below us, looking over Missoula. From where we sat, the buildings looked like tiny dollhouses and the cars like shining dots. I sat there, making a mental map of the town in my head—Missoula felt so big to me, had occupied so much space in my head and heart, that it seemed strange to see it from above in its entirety.
Immediately below us was the campus where I went to school and the auditorium where, in two years, Mia would watch me walk across a stage to accept my diploma for a bachelor’s degree in English and creative writing. From the mountain, I could see the lawn and the trees I’d lain beneath the summer I’d visited, where I’d dreamed of being a student. I could see our apartment, the parks where we played, the downtown where Mia and I braved slippery winter sidewalks. And I saw the river running like a lazy snake through it all.
Mia walked the whole way back to the car. In the setting sun, the light cast dark orange against her skin. She looked confidently back at me a few times. “We made it,” she seemed to be saying with her eyes. Not just up the mountain but to a better life.
I guess they’re in and of the same.