We often think of a bucket list as dreams that will happen “someday"—a compilation of things we’ll do when the time, money, and goals align. For me, after doctors diagnosed me with cancer, my bucket list took on a totally new meaning.
Now, I’ve lived almost four years longer than predicted, fighting just to see my kids grow up. My youngest daughter, Indy, recently stopped me in my tracks, explaining that while this battle has been “horrendous” for all of us, even this has changed our family for the better. “We’re all so much closer, and we've worked really hard to make good memories.”
Still, although we’ve done many incredible things together and checked numerous items off my bucket list, two things have felt truly out of reach. One of them is “Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Trail Again.”
If you’ve ever been to Slate Mountain, you know its magic isn't immediate. At first, it’s just a bridge and a climb. But as you ascend, the world opens up. At the summit, where the earth drops away into a panoramic expanse, it takes your breath away and renews your sense of wonder.
Over the years, I’ve seen rock chucks, mice, a bobcat, snakes, turkeys, sage hens, deer, and even a moose. And somehow, that trail felt like the backdrop of my life before I got sick: I trained there for a marathon; my husband, children, and I would hike until our lungs burned and our hearts almost burst with happiness; we'd picnic by the water; and I’d bring my violin and fiddle in the meadow.
But I haven’t been able to go back since 2020….
Following multiple surgeries and the physical toll of various treatments, my ability to walk far has diminished. Despite not being able to physically get there, Slate Mountain has filled my dreams. During hours-long scans or radiation, I’ve transported myself there. I’ll imagine sitting by the stream, the cool air on my face as I visit with my family in a world where sickness and death don’t exist.
So, I wrote two things on my bucket list as a tribute to a version of myself that no longer existed, and they truly felt unattainable:
Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Again
Number 20: Grow Old with Mike
Then, time marched on.
Last year, my parents gifted me a mobility scooter. At first, it just seemed like a tool for navigating grocery stores without collapsing. But this spring, as the Idaho air warmed, my family suggested the unthinkable: "Let's try the trail."
I shook my head, not wanting to set us up for failure. But, looking at my son’s hopeful smile, I donned a brave face and suddenly agreed to try.
What followed felt like a dream. My spirit came alive as the wind whipped past me. That scooter actually roared up the trail like a four wheeler, biting into the dirt and bouncing over the rocks. At one point, I actually outpaced my family, and honestly, I felt like…I was flying.
Then, in the quietude, sitting "ahead" of the group and waiting for them to catch up, a flash of color caught my eye. So, I gently stepped off the scooter and edged forward. There, waiting magestically on the path—like an angel!—stood a huge, wild peacock. Its feathers weren’t fanned, but the deep purples and iridescent blues still shone electric against the mountain. Within seconds, the bird cocked its head, a silent acknowledgment of my presence, then it disappeared into the brush.
I don't know the formal symbolism of peacocks, but in that moment, it felt like a breadcrumb from Heaven; the little miracle I needed to remember that our world is sometimes surreal, too beautiful for words.
I recently learned that I need another surgery. It feels daunting and exhausting. If I didn't have children or the dream of seeing their futures—if I didn't have Mike and the "outrageous" bucket list moments we’ve had—I might’ve given up by now.
But last week taught me something.
When I crossed “Number 19: Go Up Slate Mountain Again” off my bucket list, the wording struck me. As an editor, I’m usually picky about verbs, yet I hadn't written "’Walk’ Up Slate Mountain,” “Run,” or "Hike." I’d simply written: “Go.” “‘Go’ Up Slate Mountain Again.” I’d been more exact about my goal and less concerned with how we got there. I just wanted to make it happen with my family.
Sometimes we get so caught up in “how” we expect to reach our dreams that we lose the passion we had in the first place. We think that if we can't walk or hike—or run—or be “normal,” attaining our goals must be impossible. But sometimes it’s worth thinking outside of the box.
Sure, I didn't “hike” that mountain, but I still made it—as that peacock is my witness! And as I face this next surgery, I’m holding onto the fact that miracles are around us every day if we just take the time to look. It turns out that when you try and really put yourself out there, the "unattainable" might actually be within reach.
