When I was growing up, my Dad always used to ask me “Adele, do you prefer the mountains or the sea?” My most immediate thoughts went straight to the sea. Who doesn’t love the bright sun, the warm beaches and the picturesque waves that scream “main character aesthetic tropical vacation”? To some, the sea is where they gravitate to, with long summer days soaking up the sun, all inclusive Caribbean resorts, the place where worries seem to disappear almost instantly.
But nowadays, I truly believe that although my mind would first gravitate towards the sea, my heart lies with the mountains. My fondest vacations, my hometown, and most of my childhood have been spent in the cold, surrounded by those all too familiar towering rocky peaks. I remember quiet, forested 10-kilometre trails in the middle of seemingly nowhere, watching tiny bubbling streams run down hillsides while our hiking sticks clattered against rocky, well-trodden paths. I remember finally breaking through layers of dense forest after hours of hiking and bearing witness to clear, pristine glacial waters that no photo could ever do justice. I remember seeing a bear run less than a hundred metres away from me, chased out of the campground by officials. I also remember not bringing enough water on my first real hiking experience and somehow avoiding “beaver fever” after drinking what was probably highly contaminated stream water (do NOT try this at home, seriously).
One of my favourite vacations I’ve ever been on was to the Lauterbrunnen Valley in Switzerland. If you have never been there, consider checking it out someday, because it genuinely feels unreal. I have never been more captivated by a place before, or experienced the sudden urge to move somewhere for no reason other than simply wanting to exist there. Lauterbrunnen is a narrow valley surrounded by the towering Swiss Alps, with dozens of thin waterfalls spilling down from hundreds of metres above. You can hear the water long before you see it, and nearly everywhere you look, another stream or waterfall is cutting through the rock. Small villages sit quietly along the valley floor, with wooden chalets, open green fields, and hiking paths that lead up into the mountains.
What made the experience so unforgettable were the mountains. The slopes rise almost impossibly steep, dotted with patches of snow and jagged rock even in the summer. Trails wind along ridges and cliffs, sometimes disappearing into mist, and every turn reveals another peak, sharper and taller than the last. Walking through the valley, it’s impossible not to feel small, yet completely attuned to the space around you, almost like everything slows down for a moment and nothing else really matters.
This past summer, before starting my second year of university, I was able to visit Jasper National Park again, probably for the last time in a while. While the rest of my family slowed behind to take photos of the surrounding wildlife, I hiked on to reach the top of the mountain. It wasn’t a particularly nice day. A dense fog had rolled in from the rain earlier in the morning, and the air was as chilly as it always is at that elevation. There was nobody at the top of the peak when I got there, and I was able to sit by myself for a while and enjoy the view of the Athabasca River Valley, clouded with the effects of a rainy morning. I sat down near the edge and stayed there for a while, listening to the wind and the occasional distant sound of water moving somewhere below, which somehow made everything seem quieter.
It felt familiar in a way that the ocean never quite has for me. Not exciting or overwhelming or crowded with the bustle of tourists—just steady and quiet, like a place I’ve known for a long time. A place I’ll always know no matter how far I am from it. I know the glaring sun near the ocean will always make my head hurt and the feeling of sand on my skin will never fail to annoy me (and no one talks enough about HOW sand somehow ends up everywhere… and I mean EVERYWHERE). But the mountains—they are my home. They never change, even if I see them in a different country or a different setting. And hopefully, I’ll be able to see them again soon.