New Heights

The Colorado sun was breaking over the eastern plains when my alarm went off. For once, I didn't wake up gasping for air or reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Instead, I smiled at the ceiling, looking forward to the day ahead.

Today was different. After months of my therapist's gentle encouragement, I'd finally signed up for the local veterans’ hiking group. "Mountains that heal," the flyer had called it. Given what the Hindu Kush had done to me, the idea that mountains could heal seemed almost laughable. But I was out of options and running low on hope.

I dressed quickly, double-checking my pack out of habit. My analyst brain still cataloged everything methodically: water, first aid kit, trail mix, extra layers, map. Some habits from Afghanistan were impossible to break, but at least this one was useful.

The meeting point was a park-and-ride lot where a van emblazoned with a logo waited. A small group had already gathered—five men and two women, ages spanning decades. Different wars are written in the lines on their faces, and different battles are etched in their eyes.

"First time?" asked a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard. His name tag read "Mike, Marines, Desert Storm."

"That obvious?" I replied.

He chuckled. "You've got that 'I'm making a huge mistake' look we all had our first time."

The ride to the trailhead was filled with the kind of dark humor only those who'd seen combat truly understood. These jokes would make civilians uncomfortable, but they made perfect sense. With each mile, I felt something loosen in my chest…3a tightness I'd carried for so long I'd forgotten it wasn't normal.

"This hike is good for beginners," the group leader explained as we geared up. "Not too technical, fantastic views, plenty of spots to rest." She looked at me. "Stay close to Mike. He's good with first-timers."

The trail started gently enough before beginning its steady climb. Mike fell into step beside me, not pushing conversation, just a presence at my side. The silence between us wasn't empty…it was respectful, understanding. We breathed harder as the trail steepened, and I was grateful for all those solo hikes I'd forced myself to take, trying to outrun memories that always caught up anyway.

Halfway up, Mike pulled out a thermos at a rest point overlooking the valley.

"Coffee?" he offered. "Black as night, strong enough to raise the dead."

Hearing Mac's voice, I froze: "Life's bitter enough, might as well learn to taste it straight."

"Hey, you okay?" Mike's voice pulled me back.

"Yeah. Just... someone I knew used to take his coffee like that."

Mike nodded, understanding without needing details. "Afghanistan?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Iraq first tour, Afghanistan second. Different mountains, same shit."

We drank our coffee, looking out over the valley. The others were scattered nearby, some whispering, others in solitary contemplation. There was none of the frantic scanning I still caught myself doing in public places, none of the perpetual alertness. There were just people finding peace in high places.

"You know," Mike said after a while, "first time I came up here, I couldn't stop thinking about the mountains over there. How could something so beautiful be so deadly? Took me a dozen hikes to see these mountains for themselves, not as echoes of combat zones."

I nodded. "The Hindu Kush was stunning. I'd catch myself staring at sunsets even during operations, thinking how something so gorgeous could exist in the middle of so much ugliness."

"That's the thing about mountains," he replied, "they're bigger than our wars. They were here long before we fought on them, and they'll be here long after we're gone. It puts things in perspective."

We continued upward, the group naturally falling into a rhythm. I pointed out wildflowers I recognized from my solo hikes, and Mike identified birds I'd never noticed. My analyst's brain catalogs beauty instead of threats.

Two hours later, we reached the summit. The vista opened up before us: endless ranges of mountains stretching toward the horizon, valleys carved by ancient glaciers, and a hawk riding thermals in lazy circles overhead. The group fell silent, awed by the majesty before them.

I stood at the edge, wind in my face, and I felt truly present for the first time in years. Not lost in memories of Afghanistan, not planning escape routes, not bracing for the next flashback. Just here, now, breathing mountain air that somehow felt cleaner than any I'd breathed.

"This is when we usually do our ritual," Mike said, joining me.

The group was gathering in a loose circle, and I hesitantly moved to join them. The leader pulled out a small journal.

"This is our summit book," she explained. "We each write something—a thought, a memory, a hope, whatever feels right. The only rule is honesty."

The book passed around the circle. I stared at the blank page when it reached me, pen hovering. What could I possibly write that would make sense to anyone else? That would honor what I carried without drowning in it?

Finally, I wrote:

I passed the book on, feeling strangely lighter, as if those few lines had released something long held captive inside me.

After the ritual, the group scattered along the ridge, some sitting in contemplation, others taking photos.

As the afternoon wore on, stories began to flow. Not just mine, but everyone's. War stories, yes, but also stories of healing, of small victories in the battle against PTSD, of moments when they'd caught themselves feeling joy again without immediately feeling guilty for it.

For every tale of loss, there was one of connection. For every memory of pain, there was a moment of unexpected beauty. As the afternoon light gilded the mountains, something remarkable happened. The weight we all carried seemed to shift, not disappearing but somehow becoming more evenly distributed. Shared burdens grow lighter; it's an old truth, but one we were rediscovering together on that mountain ridge.

Later, as we descended with the setting sun painting the mountains in shades of gold and purple, Mike fell into step beside me again.

"So," he said, "will we see you next week? It'll be a different trail, and the coffee will be the same terrible coffee."

I looked at him, then at the mountains, and then at this group of strangers who somehow understood me better than people I'd known for years.

"Yeah," I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it. "I'll be there."

As I drove home that evening, windows down to catch the cool mountain air, I felt something I hadn't expected…hope, pure and simple. Not the cautious optimism I'd been nursing for years, but something brighter and more specific.

These mountains were different from those that had shaped my nightmares. These people carried similar weights but showed me how to carry mine more gracefully. For the first time in too long, I felt a genuine connection to the land, other people, and myself.

The nightmares might return, and the memories would certainly remain. But tonight, driving through the gathering darkness with the mountains silhouetted against a star-filled sky, I felt ready for whatever came next.

After all, I had new mountains to climb, stories to share, and promises to keep—not just to those who were gone but to myself. And for the first time in decades, that didn’t feel like a burden but a blessing.