It was October, and we were heading to Mount Shasta, nestled in the Cascade Range of Siskiyou County, Northern California. The day was sunny—neither too hot nor too cold—the kind of beautiful California weather that makes you feel at ease. Our journey, spanning about five hours, was filled with quiet anticipation. Our plan was to overland while enjoying the view of the majestic Mount Shasta.Having spent my entire life in cities, I had always considered myself a city person. I loved the vibrant shops with their stylish allure, the tastefully adorned restaurants, terraces full of life, and the convenience of having everything within walking distance or a short metro ride. Even the occasional traffic and the endless stream of people navigating their routines had become part of the rhythm I knew. Escapes into nature within the city felt like curated extensions of urban life—crowded parks, overbooked dining experiences, and the faint hum of city sounds never too far away. This trip, however, was unfamiliar territory. My experiences with untouched nature were limited, and I had no idea how profoundly this journey —and those to come— would shift my perspective and challenge the things I thought I knew about myself. Dressed in white jeans—not exactly ideal for a road trip—paired with a jersey tucked in and thankfully comfortable pair of shoes, I was every bit the city girl. My manicured hands and meticulously straightened hair completed the polished image of someone entirely unprepared for nature’s raw embrace. You might think I should know better about dressing for a trip like this—and of course, I did. But for years, my identity had been intertwined with appearances. My persona was crafted to blend seamlessly with the fashionable crowd in an extroverted city, even if it left me feeling estranged from myself. So, I clung to that identity, even for this adventure.
My partner, a seasoned overlander, was the polar opposite. With all the tools and gear meticulously prepared, he quietly observed my choices without interference. The drive began in San Jose, taking us through Sacramento and Redding. As we neared Mount Shasta, the landscape transformed from urban to forested mountains. I had been absorbed in my book for most of the drive, but the changing scenery—vast farmland, towering pines, and the first glimpse of Mount Shasta’s peak— drew my attention away from the pages. The quiet road stretched before us, bordered by expansive fields and framed by a vast blue sky. A certain stillness began to settle over me. We arrived around six in the evening, greeted by open fields, couple of grazing horses in the farmland, and the mountain standing in its unyielding majesty. The surroundings were minimal. I quickly changed into something more comfortable and wandered toward the horses while my partner took some photos of the surroundings. We then decided it was a good time to have dinner before it got dark. While we sat quietly, enjoying our neatly wrapped sandwiches, my partner shared stories about the mountain's sacred significance in Native American traditions, I listened with a critical mind, unsure of how much to believe. As the hours passed, no profound calm or mystical revelation swept over me; instead, the logistics of sleeping in the car occupied my thoughts. Slowly, it became dark and the cold set in, we retreated into the car for warmth but before we fall asleep, we stepped outside to gaze at the stars, and for a moment I completely forgot how cold it was, I was struck by brilliance of the stars. They blanketed the sky in a way I had never seen before, with the mountain’s peak gracefully standing as a silent witness. There were no noises, no other people—just us and the vastness and to my surprise, I slept quite well that night in the car.
The next morning, the sunrise redefined beauty for me. I have always preferred sunrises to sunsets, but even my imagination couldn’t have created the spectacle before me. The morning light danced across Mount Shasta, painting the mountain in white, warm browns, oranges, and gold. The land below seemed to collaborate in reverence, amplifying the mountain’s stillness. Everything around me seemed embodiment of serenity. I could sense that this wouldn't be my last encounter with Mount Shasta. We watched the sunrise, feeling the earth warm around us as we had breakfast, careful not to disturb the stillness, we spoke in low voices, almost whispering. Afterward, we set off for a day of hiking.
I can’t claim to have experienced a mystic revelation that lived up to the myths surrounding the mountain. Yet, standing under the stars that night and witnessing the sunrise the next morning shifted something inside me. For the first time, the weight of the “should-haves” and “would-haves” I had carried began to loosen, giving hope and space for something new. Months later, one night grappling with the fear of the unknown and unable to sleep, I revisited that vision. I saw myself standing on that arid land, beneath the endless sky, with Mount Shasta rising tall and still before me. In that moment, I felt at home—not just with the memory of the place but with the realization that I was finally on a new journey. A journey to find myself.
