“As she fought for her life, the only way my dad and I were able to keep ourselves afloat was to do what we both loved best: to hike.”

It was another frigid winter day in Minneapolis when I boarded the flight to Tucson, eager to escape the polar vortex and feel the sun again. For three decades, Tucson had been my sanctuary, thanks to my parents’ decision to settle there. Drawn initially by family visits, I gradually fell in love with its rugged desert landscape, laid-back charm, and the nearly endless sunshine that warmed me year after year.

As the plane descended, the Santa Catalina Mountains appeared beneath us, welcoming me back. Tomorrow, I would hike again, filling my lungs with desert air. But life had other plans.

Instead of five carefree days on the trails with my dad, I found myself trapped in the sterile halls of Tucson Medical Center. Out of nowhere, my mother had contracted C. diff, a severe and life-threatening infection. C. diff infects around 500,000 Americans annually, and kills 30,000. I had no idea, as I’d never heard of it before my mom turned ill. I wish I did, though, as we could have brought her to hospital sooner, and she wouldn’t have been facing kidney failure and concerns over her colon bursting. Time collapsed into cycles of anxiety, doctors’ consultations, and relentless worry. It felt impossible to breathe.

My dad and I were lost, grappling with an unfamiliar feeling of helplessness. Each day, after the morning hospital visits left us drained and fearful, we turned instinctively toward the trails in Sabino Canyon, just five minutes from my parents’ house. This canyon, nestled within the Coronado National Forest, had long been our refuge. Its familiar paths offered a semblance of comfort when everything else felt uncertain.

We didn’t have time for our usual long adventures, so we chose shorter versions of our favorite hikes — just enough to restore a sense of balance. On our first afternoon, we followed the Phoneline Trail, winding high along the ridge, the city of Tucson unfolding quietly below. From above, our problems felt smaller, the desert vast and enduring.

As we hiked, my Dad and I talked about family, life, and our other favorite topics. But our conversations always returned to my mom. We knew that she was in the right place, receiving the best care possible. Yet she was also fighting for her life. Her kidneys were severely dehydrated, she couldn’t eat, and my normally spirited mom could hardly speak. She seemed to be fading away, and it terrified me.  

The next day we sought solace in Bear Canyon, chasing the gentle rush of water toward Seven Falls. The steady rhythm of our footsteps and the soft murmurs of Sabino Creek offered temporary relief, easing our tension like a balm. Sitting by the falls, we watched water cascade down smooth stone walls, reminding us that even in crisis, beauty remains.

But it was the next hike, the challenging climb up Blackett’s Ridge, that truly grounded me. The ascent was steep, rocky, relentless — but every step upward felt like shedding layers of worry. At the summit, Tucson stretched out in a 360-degree panorama, a reminder of the immensity and persistence of the natural world. The burning in my legs was a welcome distraction, anchoring me firmly to the present moment.

That morning at the hospital, my mom had asked a favor. She wanted me to brush her hair. It had been over a week and her hair was full of tangles and knots, just like me. Yet, as I ran the brush gently through her hair, I finally felt at peace. I knew that she was going to be ok. I could feel it in my core. 

On my last day, hiking once more up through the Sonoran Desert, we passed saguaros standing tall and prickly pear cacti poised to bloom. Though it was too early for flowers, I could vividly imagine their vibrant colors soon painting the desert. Standing amidst these resilient plants, I recognized the parallels with our own struggle. Despite pain and uncertainty, we’d found moments of peace and strength in the desert’s quiet beauty.

As I prepared to leave Tucson, gratitude flooded me — not just for the healing trails, but for the powerful reminder that even amid life’s toughest trials, nature patiently waits to offer its quiet salvation. After two long weeks, my mom had finally turned the corner. She would spend a few more days in the hospital recovering, but she survived and for that I am truly thankful.