TrailBliss Blog

The Compass of Night is a reflection on what darkness restores. Beneath Washington’s dimming skies, it follows the quiet lessons of starlight—how awe reorders perspective, how stillness refines belonging. From Chaco’s November sky to alpine ridges where the Milky Way still breathes, it explores how walking into night becomes a way of remembering our place in the vastness.

Before trees or flowers, there was moss. Then came lichen—a quiet partnership shaping the world grain by grain. In Washington’s damp forests, they turn stone to soil, store water, and write time across bark. Their quiet persistence reveals how strength can live in patience and how impermanence is not loss, but renewal. To notice them is to see the planet breathing in miniature.

On the trail, there is always the pull to keep moving. Miles to cover, elevation to gain, summits to reach. Apps tally steps, watches blink heart rates, and a hidden voice whispers: faster, farther. Yet the moments that stay with us rarely happen in motion. They arrive when we stop.