The San Gabriel Mountains Gave Me a Breath of New Life
Stevie Gawryluk works for Idaho Conservation League and is an Ambassador for Artemis Sportswomen in Sun Valley, ID. When not working or volunteering, you will find Stevie hiking, hunting, fishing, and traveling with her partner, Andrew.
You were there for me when I felt the loneliest. When I felt all hope and joy was impossible. You were there for me to lean on, to give me lessons provided on a foundation of tough, yet nurturing, love. You allowed me to be angry, to scream in despair. In moments when I saw no beauty in the world, you were there for me. You gave me places to retreat and escape society, all the while giving me opportunities to feel as though I was on top of the world. Heartbreak, you were there for me during heartbreak. When I felt that guttural, nauseating feeling of fear and anguish you, San Gabriel Mountains, were there for me.
I was in my early twenties and the world was my oyster. I had just completed graduate school in Scotland and returned home to California to find what future was best for my partner and me. We had thousands of miles between us and so many dreams we were working to bring to fruition. But, unbeknownst to me, life had other plans. The relationship wasn’t right for him and I unexpectedly found myself taking my ring off, letting go of all that I dreamt of, and seeking a career during the Great Recession. I was suddenly alone and unable to find my path.
I began to self implode and plummeted into a whirlwind of an identity crisis and depression. An indescribable sense of dark, cold, and hollow emptiness became all too familiar. As I looked at the world each day, a numbing fog separated me from the realities of life. The devastation had broken me and I had become a mere shell of myself.
In all of this darkness that had overcome me, I was fortunate enough to be home with my supportive family, surrounded by public land. Home was Wrightwood, a hidden mountain gem surrounded by the jungle of the Los Angeles basin on the west and the Mojave Desert on the east. At a whopping 5.9 square miles and a population of about 3,500, it is the only full-service town in this small 68-mile long transverse mountain range.
It was within these forested mountains where I had found myself as a child, amazed at the bewilderment nature brought to me. I would climb high into trees to read books and watch curious Steller’s Jays and talkative acorn woodpeckers. It was here that I learned the depths of my imagination as I pretended the sounds of creaking dead trees were that of a pirate ship’s mast on the open sea. It was here, in these mountains, where I learned the joy, comfort, and healing properties of the natural world.
As a grief-stricken young adult, the memories of my love for these mountains and forests flooded all of my senses and I did what I inherently knew I needed to do: I gave myself to the land. I started to hike and I hiked hard. I found myself wandering through chaparral, in and about soaring yellow pines, and deep within canyons that miners once roamed. I would sit silently and watch wildlife from afar, unknowing that years later I would use these skills as a big game hunter throughout the Intermountain West. I began using this emotional pain to fuel each grueling step to the highest peaks in the range. When writing about this very range, John Muir wrote:
“Not even in the Sierra have I ever made the acquaintance of mountains more rigidly inaccessible. The slopes are exceptionally steep and insecure to the foot of the explorer, however great his strength or skill may be, but thorny chaparral constitutes their chief defense.”
As I neared the summits, each burning breath was a breath of new life. As I stood on those mountain tops, drinking my ritualistic freshly brewed cup of tea, I would find myself lost in thought on what was and what would be. I was, unknowingly, losing myself in these mountains and in return, finding myself.
During those two years of self-rediscovery, I was no longer the 6-year-old hiking with my dad to the “secret spot” we frequented in the San Bernardino National Forest. I was no longer the rebellious teen sneaking to hike to the old mines or “moon tower” hidden in the Angeles National Forest. I was a woman healing and redefining herself on these mountains and in these forests. I was holding on tight to the strength, power, and freedom these mountains were providing me. With each step I took within my beloved San Gabriel Mountains, I was reborn. I was a phoenix.
I realize now, that time of pain and discovery planted the seed for exploration that has inspired the past nine years of chasing public land throughout the mountain west. I have since called Lake Tahoe and Grand Teton National Park home. I have found home within the frigid southwest mountains of Montana and have explored a life in the High Rockies of Colorado. I now live in central Idaho and find myself amongst the Pioneer, Boulder, White Cloud, and Sawtooth mountain ranges. Despite the magnificent places I have called home, there is one place that I hold closest to my heart–the beautiful San Gabriel Mountains. The mountains that taught me the love and value of our public land.
As I reminisce about the valuable lessons I learned as I traversed and climbed during these times of internal pain, I am reminded of the pain these beautiful mountains are experiencing. These mountains, and the forests blanketing them, are no stranger to the drought and mega-fires experienced in the West. Year after year, the canopy and undergrowth grow drier, creeks and sag ponds see less water, and fires grow in intensity and frequency. The places that acted as sacred spaces for me and taught me to love myself and cherish our public land are being incinerated by scorching, unstoppable flames. These mountains stood for me at a time when I did not have the strength to hold myself up and it is time for me to stand for them. That is why I demand that the U.S. Congress finds solutions to save this land from the burning agony it experiences due to years of forest mismanagement, excessive drought, and extreme changes in the climate.
Treasured public land, such as the San Gabriel Mountains, deserve fortitude, strength, and health so that they can continue providing for wildlife and humans. Humans such as that lost woman I was all of those years ago.
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Would you like to write about public lands that you cherish? Please email Mary Jo Brooks at brooksm@nwf.org for guidelines. You’ll get this cool sticker as a thank you.
