Sometimes I get nostalgic, thinking about our old life. The one that was just Brad and I. Waking up on Saturday mornings to the roar of a jet boil and the smell of coffee brewing. Gazing up at the morning light streaming through a dew-covered tent and feeling the cool, mountain air on my face. Afternoons spent hiking or climbing or floating or skiing or whatever the hell we wanted really, with the only thought of logistics being which one of us was going to make sure there was beer in the cooler for afterwards. Laying in bed at night, scheming about which country we’d be able to get to next. Before the thought of traveling abroad brought up horrific thoughts of ruined nap schedules in 6-hour time-zones.

The adjustment to parenthood has been one of epic proportions. It really is a whole new life. One where get-up-and-go adventures don’t really exist. Where time spent in the outdoors must be plotted and calculated and planned for. Where chaos must often be tolerated and go-with-the-flow attitudes most absolutely assumed in order to survive.

We’ve tried our best to get out there with Ketch.

We spent our winter dragging hundreds of pounds worth of bottles and diapers and car seats and toys – along with skis and boots and polls and winter coats and hats from our house to our truck to resort lobbies and back – most definitely the hardest I’ve ever worked for a handful of days on the mountain.

We spent our spring road tripping through the desert en route to the Grand Canyon. Brad tolerating his Nazi-wife in the backseat who wouldn’t let him get out to pee under any circumstance if the baby was sleeping and who completely and utterly lost it on the 18 hour car ride back…eventually chugging four Starbucks doubleshots and driving through the night until 6am rather than subjecting that baby to another day in the car. 

We’ve spent our summer exploring Montana by Scamp. Trading in our light-weight camping gear for a 1,500 lb glamp-worthy trailer, which has proven itself quite useful when it comes to things like 96 degree weather and swarms of mosquitoes and sleeping outside with a kid.

And sometimes – to tell you the honest truth – it’s hard as hell. We’ve had nights where we’ve turned around and gone home at 11 pm, hikes where we’ve called it and retreated 15 minutes in. Sometimes it’s stressful and sometimes we argue and sometimes Ketch decides for us that we’ll all just stay home.

But I will say. That everything we’ve done, be it failed attempt or day spent in the sunshine, has been completely and utterly worth it. 

We’ve gotten to snuggle Ketch in sleeping bags while looking up at desert stars. Expose him to the taste of fresh mountain air and the feeling of dirt between his tiny toes. He’s torn apart leaves and thrown rocks and nearly poked his eyes out with sticks. He’s dipped his feet into fast moving rivers and splashed his fingers into cold mountain lakes. And although there have been some tears, there has also been wonder. Fascinations with tree bark and caterpillars and spiders and sand.

And even though it’s tested Brad and I’s relationship a time or two – it’s also given us moments together that we’ve desperately needed. Because as magical as is to raise a tiny human, it can also be so fully enthralling that you loose yourself. You can get so busy filling them up with love and attention and stories and snacks that you forget to feed your soul. And sometimes it takes walking through the belly of a canyon or staring at your husband through a flickering campfire to remember who you were, who you are, and who you want to be.

We always try our very best to respect Ketch’s limits. We always try to laugh through the disasters (or at least afterwards).  We always try to learn from our mistakes. We almost always have a post attempt beer.

Every weekend feels like a learning process. Every forgotten item is forever ingrained in the packing list memory. And now we know things. Like an adult hat can take the place of a baby one with some tissues, duct tape and a little perseverance. Like cheese is the magic solution to buckling a kid in a pack without any tears. Like baby bug wipes are way better than baby bug sprays. And that breaking for a bit in the shade can mitigate almost any meltdown. We’ve learned that progression is best achieved gradually, and that small victories (like getting through a three and then five and then six mile hike) should be celebrated.

And while I know we both miss the days of grand adventure – we’ve come to the conclusion that these small trips can be pretty rad too. That we can continue to do the things we love, all be them in a much modified fashion. The next few years won’t be about finding big routes or pushing ourselves beyond our comfort zones, but they will be about staying active in a way that makes us happy. That allows us to share what we love with our kiddo – who of course is the greatest adventure of all.

And, so – to all of my other outdoor loving parents out there sacrificing climbing years and braving aborted missions and risking ear piercing tantrums. I see you. I commend you for your efforts. I hope what we’re doing is worth it. That the outdoors will teach our kids curiosity and flexibility and perseverance and gratitude. And that the time spent there, helps us remember ourselves – and be the kind of parents we want to be