Between Lost and Found: Reckoning on Mount Teneriffe

It was January 14, 2021–the kind of winter morning that feels like a brief truce with the season. Clear, bright, the air sharp with cold and promise. The rain-soaked world had wrung itself dry overnight, leaving only light, clean and unfiltered, spilling through the trees. Days like this don’t wait; they pull you outside, into the crisp stillness, into the quiet urgency of sunlight on borrowed time. 

So I did. I threw together my daypack—a peanut butter jelly sandwich, a water bottle, and the ceremonial apple I always saved for the summit, a small ritual of arrival. The sky stretched wide and blue, a rare break in the winter’s gray mood. It was a day meant for movement, for hiking, for finding higher ground before the clouds remembered their place.

Mount Teneriffe via Kamikaze is no joke—7.5 miles of steep, ego-crushing ascent. I knew this. I had done harder hikes. I trusted my body, my endurance, my experience. I also trusted my ability to look at the clock, completely ignore it, and start my hike at 11 a.m. I’d be back by five-ish. Plenty of time. The first stretch was effortless, meditative. The forest was crisp and still, the trail unfolding beneath my boots like an invitation. Near Teneriffe Falls, I passed a few hikers heading down, their direction a quiet suggestion of time slipping away. The mountain pulled me deeper into its solitude, luring me with its fragrance - a heady mix of moist moss, earth and cedar, and a promise of glorious view from the top. I responded by taking the faint, unmaintained path with the name that should have given me pause: Kamikaze Trail. 

The switchbacks vanished. The incline sharpened. The hike turned into a leg-day workout. Each step demanded attention. Loose rocks, hidden roots, snow creeping in.  A pause. A flicker of unease. A rational voice whispered, “Turn around.” The sun was already tilting westward. The snow started getting deeper than I expected. Still, I pressed on.  Not yet, I told the voice. Not now.

The snow deepened—first to my ankles, then to my shins, then to my knees. My legs went from “we got this” to “please reconsider all your life choices.” The final quarter mile was relentless. At last—the summit. Mount Rainier rose in its full glory, perfect as a painted backdrop from a low-budget film. Clouds, scattered like cotton balls, floated overhead—light-hearted thoughts adrift in a blue daydream. The sky and snow shimmered in magical hues of blue, casting a hypnotic calm over everything. And just as I let myself settle into the moment, the rational voice returned—sharp and unsparing: you made a series of poor decisions. No time to linger. No apple at the top today.

Snow has a way of erasing certainty. I took a deep breath, looking for anything familiar - a tree, a boulder - and started descending. I drifted right. Checked my map, misread it. Adjusted more towards right. I was guiding myself-unknowingly-into the watershed between Mount Si and Mount Teneriffe. 

Small mistakes are like falling snowflakes—insignificant on their own, but give them time, let them pile up, and suddenly you’re chest-deep in a blizzard of bad choices. I was not where I should be. “It’s fine!” I assured myself.  I can fix this! Left. Right. Downhill. A small, tragic circle. Then I stepped into freezing water. I gasped, my soul briefly exiting my body. I yanked my leg out, cursing at the wind. My hands were raw from bush-whacking.

Guess it was time to let family know about my situation. Uphill, desperate for signal. I called my husband. I’m fine. Just a little off-trail. No big deal!  Meanwhile, my husband, being an actual reasonable human being, drove to the Mount Si trailhead, met some hikers, and got the ever-so-gentle suggestion to call Search and Rescue. He did. 

I am a responsible hiker. I practice Leave No Trace. I know better. And yet, there I was. The mountain didn’t care. It didn’t pity me. The trees stood quiet, their snow-laden branches glowing in the moonlight, utterly indifferent to my personal crisis. The wilderness doesn’t argue, doesn’t console. It simply is. There’s an old Buddhist story of a monk lost in a forest. The monk prays, “Why have you forsaken me?” The forest, ancient and impartial, offers no answer. When the monk quiets his mind and surrenders to the silence, he finds his way. That night, I understood that story. The mountain’s indifference wasn’t cruelty. It was clarity. The mountain demands only one thing: Pay attention.

There is something about the wilderness that strips you down to the essentials. Animals do not get lost. Birds migrate thousands of miles, returning to the same nests. Wolves know the curves of their forests. Even ants find their way with an internal compass. But humans? We wander. Not just physically, but existentially. We get lost in forests and in thoughts, in decisions and in moments. We need tools—maps, compasses, GPS systems—to remind us of where we are. Perhaps that's the burden of consciousness: to be aware enough to realize we're lost but too self-assured to always listen. And perhaps that's why the wilderness humbles us. In a forest, our intellect is a poor guide. Our plans dissolve. Only presence and attention matter. The noise of the world disappears, and all that remains is what has always been true—breath, movement. The sheer absurdity of my thought and it all—oddly comforted me. I was alone, not lonely. The air was thick with silence, the kind that isn’t empty but full. Full of presence. Full of knowing. I tilted my head back, my gaze locking onto the moon—round, luminous, staring down like an unimpressed but patient guardian. It had been watching over lost wanderers for millennia. The moon did not answer, but it bathed the treetops in silver, turned the snow into a glowing expanse of possibility. I took that as encouragement.

I walked. Slowly, deliberately, my boots crunching through the ice-crusted snow. My breath settled into a rhythm, matching the hush of the trees. The trail was out there. I had not walked off the face of the earth. I just had to listen. Trust is a funny thing. We place it in plans, in people, in our ability to make logical decisions. Trusting the unknown, trusting your intuitions? That is harder. The mind, ever the overachiever, tries to solve, to predict, to explain. Here, in the belly of the night, my mind was useless. All I had was my body, my breath, my feet moving forward and sometimes in circles. 

Seven hours alone in the forest teaches you things you can’t learn otherwise. The sound of your own breath becomes thunderous. The trees stop being scenery and start feeling like witnesses. Every snapped twig, every shifting shadow, becomes a question you can’t answer. I kept searching. Kept moving. My breath matched the hush of the trees. And then—a shift. A faint path, boot-packed into the snow. Did I find the trail?  Doubt gnawed, and then — relief, sharp and sobering. A quiet surrender to the truth of being found. I was no longer lost. Relief crashed through, a wave breaking against the exhaustion I hadn't had time to acknowledge yet. My body uncoiled from the grip of survival mode. Hunger twisted in my stomach. I unwrapped my sandwich. Bread clung to my tongue–dry, like dust. This was the taste of stress. The aftershock of fear.

I ran. Down the trail, I just wanted to be out of the cold, out of the night, out of this space between lost and found. My body was spent, but momentum carried me forward—down the trail, towards the parking lot, towards home. And then—headlamps in the darkness. A voice called out, “Are you Sarvinder?” “Yes, I am”. My voice cracked from hours of silence, dehydration, and possibly a little bit of embarrassment. “Are you okay?” they asked. I wasn’t sure how to answer. Physically? Mostly. Emotionally? Undetermined. Spiritually? Somewhere between mildly humbled and existential crisis. The Search and Rescue team—calm, steady, absolutely not judgmental (though they had every right to be)—offered me water, food, reassurance. At the trailhead, another team stood by, ready to come up if needed. I stood there, staring at these strangers who had chosen to be here on a cold January midnight, to dedicate their time to bringing people home. To bringing me home.

"Humans are unique in being the beings that question their being." - Martin Heidegger

I had always prided myself on self-reliance. On being strong. On pushing through, on enduring, on meeting challenges alone. And yet, that night, I understood something new: Strength is not just about independence. It is also about knowing when to accept help. I drove home in silence, the memory of the moonlight on the snow still etched in my mind. I had set out that morning thinking I was chasing adventure. Instead, I had found something else—humility, responsibility, the quiet grace of being seen.

This is the story I carry with me now. A reminder that in wilderness, as in life - there is a beauty in not knowing, a grace in listening, and a strength in surrender.

Happy trails!

Dedicated to King County Search & Rescue (KCSAR): To the many who give their time so others can return home—and to the dozen who came looking for me that night. I’m quietly honored to now be one of you. KCSAR is a 100% volunteer-driven nonprofit. Their work is powered entirely by generosity; every donation helps them continue answering the call, no matter the hour.