In September 2022, I stood on a pile of rocks that marked the once-grand reach of Hilda Glacier in the Canadian Rockies. Now the glacier was no more than a small triangle of ice clinging stubbornly to the far wall of the valley, a few kilometers away. It had been important for me to come here. I’d been married at the glacier, 20 years before. But so much had changed since then—about this place, and about me.
Reaching the moraine had been a struggle on this return visit. I’d experienced an anxiety attack on the trail as I hiked in with my husband, D, hiked in; I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and might pass out. Things didn’t get any better once we climbed atop the moraine, then decided to return to the valley floor two stories below. Halfway down the rubbly slope, I froze. I was terrified of falling on the steeper section of looser rock. I could picture it already: my foot twisting between rocks, my knee bending at an impossible angle as I tumbled. Shaking and nearly in tears, I somehow picked my way down.
More fears crowded in as we continued our hike. I constantly watched our dog, Silah, fearing that she’d pull up lame because she hadn’t exercised enough before the trip. I fretted over how far I could hike. And I longed for the safety of my bed, where I could disappear into sleep, away from my anxiety and bipolar disorder.
Our trip to the Rockies was supposed to be a celebratory anniversary return to a place that meant everything to us. Our rings were engraved with the mountains, trees, sun and moon—and with two people holding hands. My husband and I weren’t hardcore climbers or backpackers, but spending time in the mountains was our life.
For the last decade, my mental illness had been insinuating itself into my enjoyment of the outdoors. I resented and mourned the fact that I wasn’t the mountain person I used to be. And I wondered what I could do to change that.
Giving Illness a Name
In January 2014, I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. Unlike bipolar I, which presents as a manic episode followed by a return to “normal,” bipolar II is characterized by long depressive episodes punctuated by intermittent hypomanic episodes. During the depressive episodes, my anxiety becomes crippling and I sleep an inordinate amount. Hypomania is less extreme as the mania of bipolar I, but it’s just as disruptive. During hypomanic episodes, I feel like my type A self again: juggling ideas and projects, staying up late, and taking on writing assignments as though the “high” will last and I’ll be able to finish them all.
Anxiety disorder is more insidious. Worry takes up residence in my mind and pokes at me incessantly. Small issues grow into monsters. I check the stove several times, though I know it’s off. I arrive at appointments too early, sure I’ll be delayed on the way, and driving, with all its hazards, overwhelms me.
The diagnoses provided me with a small relief; at least now I had a name for what troubled me. But I have had to work hard to manage these ailments. And sometimes I can think only about all that they’ve taken from me.
I was angry when we returned from the Rockies—angry that my illness had stolen my enjoyment of hiking. I vowed to address my anxiety and BP II in the outdoors. And I would return to the mountains and tackle both hikes again.
There’s a mountain of research about the benefits of the outdoors for our physical and mental well-being. People who spend just 120 minutes per week outdoors—doing just about anything—report improved mood and overall health, studies show. The Japanese practice of shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing, can reduce both cortisol levels and blood pressure even after a single episode.
So, nature often can help us feel better—but it isn’t exactly a cure. I suspected that nature wouldn’t heal me. Still, I wanted to see how much good it could do.
The Challenge
My hiking challenge began with me just getting out of the house once a week for an easy 4-kilometer (roughly 2.5 miles) walk. After a month of flat walks, I moved to the local “mountain” (it’s only 1,086 feet above sea level), and I doubled the number of walks I took. After getting familiar with the terrain, I went three times a week, increasing both distance and difficulty. I made sure to take my as-needed anxiety medication during these walks, to keep me from hyperventilating on the steeper trails.
After each hike, I felt both tired and accomplished, and glad that I’d pushed myself over the hills and skittered down the other side. I developed more confidence on the trail, moving faster without worrying about twisting an ankle on a root or losing my footing on the rocky sections. As I scanned the forest around me, worried about a bear or cougar encounter, I also noticed pleasing details like mushrooms, a field of lush green bracken ferns or tiny spring flowers.
Did all this hiking help my anxiety and depression? Well, I was still anxious. And I didn’t necessarily feel a bump in my mood after hiking. My counselor, though, suggested that maybe my time in nature was doing some good—not by lifting me out of depression, but by keeping me from sinking deeper. Attention Restoration Theory proposes that people may experience cognitive benefits, such as focus and attention, from being exposed to nature that they may not realize at the time. This describes some of my experience.
Research also finds that nature sounds—birds chirping, streams burbling, the wind in the trees—positively affect our mood. And exercise, both indoors and outdoors, promotes serotonin and opiate production in the brain, kind of like the effects of antidepressants. In short, though my mood wasn’t 100% better after a hike, perhaps I received some of the benefits of being outside without realizing it.
But would all this walking mean I’d have a better mindset in the Canadian Rockies? Would I hike happily? I would find out when we returned in September 2024.
Small Improvements
We hit the trail again accompanied by cool fall weather and flaming-yellow aspen leaves. Silah pushed ahead of us, happy to be hiking. I plodded along the overgrown forest path behind her, feeling out of breath despite my hiking regimen. Was it the elevation? Was my training insufficient? I wondered. Thankfully, I didn’t have an anxiety attack as I slowly ascended to the top of the marginal moraine. Looking out over the vast, gray floodplain below the glacier, we marveled at how much the area had changed in the nearly 30 years of our visits.
We reached the spot where I’d had trouble descending the moraine last time. I made my way down the rocky, shifting slope with confidence and pride. I did it! I’d conquered one of my obstacles.
We hiked onward, toward the remnant glacier. I didn’t worry about Silah pulling a muscle or overdoing it, as I had before. Soon, though, I felt apprehension creeping in. It told me that I’d been out too long and needed to get back to my routine. I was relieved when we turned around to hike back to the truck. Despite this small setback, we had a great hike, and my mind and body cooperated to get me up and over the moraines and to the glacier front. It was a definite improvement.
No Silver Bullet
Two days later, we headed out on the freshly snow-covered trail to Boundary Glacier. It was a tricky approach, with many slippery tree roots hidden under the snow. We had to traverse an alluvial fan, and we slid and stumbled over the rocks.
By lunchtime I felt disoriented. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to go forward or back. D once again guided me to a place I could take my pack off. My anxiety was growing. I kept it in check with deep breaths. We discussed the trail over lunch and decided that conditions weren’t optimal to continue. Still, I was disappointed.
On the way back to the truck, the anxiety didn’t subside. As I walked behind D and Silah on the root-covered trail, I worried I was too slow. After a while, I stopped to collect myself and to take an anti-anxiety pill.
“Do you feel like pitching yourself off the slope, or lying on the ground and crying?” D asked, trying to gauge my stress level.
The latter, I answered. But I wasn’t going to let anxiety get the best of me. We hiked out and drove back to our cabin, as I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t weak for not continuing.
An Ongoing Project
Clearly, the nature cure isn’t as simple as we want it to be. I know that I’ll always be mentally ill, no matter how much time I spend in nature. I still get anxiety attacks and feel hijacked by disruptions to my routine. Last July I thought hiking was making me feel a lot better—only to realize I was in a bipolar high that made everything feel better.
But I also know that hiking has done wonders for me, too. It has increased my confidence on the trail. I enjoy being outside more. The outdoors also helps me manage my illness, to some extent: In the spring of 2024 I was in a terrible bipolar low. I felt like if I didn’t hike, I would die. So, I hiked. And I made it through. Being outside gives me a “cognitive reset” that allows me to function better when I return from the mountains.
So, I will keep getting out there, and I will keep working on my outdoor anxiety. For those struggling with similar problems, I recommend getting outside as much as possible. You may not feel better immediately, but it may help more than you realize.