Just months after my total hip replacement, a family trip to Alaska’s trails helped me recover my sense of self

The challenging Lost Lake Trail is a nearly 23-kilometre out-and-back stretch in the heart of the Chugach National Forest. It meanders through thick forests of spruce and hemlock, up to high alpine meadows and terrain blanketed in wildflowers, with views of snow-clad mountains and distant glaciers, leading up to the aquamarine Lost Lake. It is known as one of the most beautiful hikes near Seward, but to my surprise, the thought of it filled me with fear.

During my lifetime of hiking, which had taken me from the peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro to the Andes of South America, I had never doubted myself like this before. But now, my mind raced as I envisioned encountering an angry bear or moose along an overly narrow path. Alaska is considered bear country, with grizzlies found nearly everywhere in the state, and black bears inhabiting most of the forests, according to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game.

Perhaps my dread was anxiety left over from our last Alaska hike, in Homer, where we were dropped off in an ominous fog on a remote island — and counted over 10 piles of fresh bear poop along the trail. Or maybe, probably, it was because I had undergone a total hip replacement only five months before.

The surgery had been harder than I expected, both physically and mentally. I had always been fit and active, so it came as a shock when I learned, at age 50, that I had worn away all the cartilage in my right hip. I was filled with emotions: fear of the surgery, concern about aging, and worry about how long it would take me to get back on my feet.

It took me three months to be able to walk around our neighbourhood lake, something I used to do easily every day before the surgery. At the time of this Alaska trip, I was disappointed in my slow progress, and unsure if I could accomplish the longer hikes I had optimistically planned before the procedure.

“Mom, in life you have to push through the struggle to see the beauty of things,” my suddenly wise teen pressed on. “You have hiked much harder trails than Lost Lake, and you know you can do it. Do you really want to miss out?” If Sophia — who used to hate hiking — was finally eager to go, I couldn’t let her (or myself) down.

As we parked our car in the nearly empty lot by the trailhead, about eight kilometres outside Seward, I got out slowly, intimidated by the lack of fellow hikers — and by the big sign announcing the most recent sighting of a mother bear and cubs. It was a warning I couldn’t laugh off as easily as the rest of my family.

To my relief, as we set off on the trail, I realized there was ample room on the path to navigate through the lush alpine forest — and to give any wildlife lots of personal space. Although the route seemed relatively unknown to tourists (or just less popular than the more accessible, shorter hikes in town), we saw plenty of mountain bikers.

As we trekked up through thick forests of spruce and hemlock — talking and singing to keep any omnivorous beasts away — I finally took a deep breath, allowing myself to appreciate the scenery and company. When we reached the high alpine meadows, we were rewarded with terrain blanketed in purple, yellow and white wildflowers. Now wide open, the trail offered magnificent panoramic views of the lush green mountains, a distant glacier, and the cloud-covered Resurrection Bay far below in Seward.

After roughly three hours at a medium pace, we finally reached our destination, Lost Lake. Arriving here truly felt like discovering something special. While I was the last one to reach the point, I was proud of myself for making it so far on my new hip, and regaining some self-belief in the process.

Before my hip replacement, I had always felt strong and intrepid, believing that if I set my mind to something, I could succeed. But the surgery reminded me that I was reaching middle age, and I wouldn’t always be able to do the things I used to do. A big part of my identity was changing.

I was grateful for my daughter’s reminder that the best times in life are when you leave your comfort zone. That is what makes you feel free. By challenging me not to give into fear, she pushed me back on track and restored me to my senses. It was during that family hike to Lost Lake that I saw how much of myself — and my sense of adventure — was reflected in her.

While an ugly, puffy, purplish scar remained as a souvenir of my surgery, it was healing with time. So would I. As my doctor had said of my old hip, “It doesn’t mean you are broken. It means that you have a body and soul that is well used and well loved.”