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Facts and Arguments

A lot has changed in my life since I last climbed this trail on Burnaby Mountain. But the view is better now

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

Two years ago, while my husband was secretly planning to leave me, I went on a hike with a friend.

Burnaby Mountain, about a half hour from downtown Vancouver, has a moderately difficult wooded trail that culminates in a punishing 500-step climb, also known as the "Burnaby Grind." The top of the stairs leads to one final 20-minute ascent. It ends with a sign that reads "no smoking on the trail," something I found amusing, given the breathless state from which hikers emerge.

The hike is not the most popular in the area. There are no waterfalls or suspension bridges or glaciers to attract the masses. It starts from the parking lot with a shimmering view of the city in the distance, a gaggle of majestic totem poles and a few glimpses of the ocean. Then it's into the woods, where it's all trees, rocks, a sad section that follows the highway, dusty berry bushes and finally those torturous plank steps threading otherworldly into the forest.

Always naturally thin, at the time I didn't grasp the difference between thin and fit. Back then, once I started to sweat or feel as much as a minor twinge, I stopped.

I didn't think much about my fitness levels before we set out that day. The trouble started fairly early on. Even the flat sections of the trail left me slightly winded. While my friend, a regular exerciser strode at a steady gait, I traipsed along, chatting airily, vacillating between overconfidence and obliviousness as if we were out for a quick stroll. I brought nothing but a water bottle, which I asked my friend to carry in her backpack. I laughed at the bear bell that jingled on the strap of her bag.

Then we came to the stairs. By the time I started climbing, I was already at my limit. Midway through, I was delirious. Blinded by sweat and panic, I stopped at each step, clutching my sides, gasping for air. It was a clear, warm day but I saw no blue ocean visible as you go higher, just a dark tunnel in front of me as I struggled to finish without the aid of an air ambulance. By the time we reached the top of the steps, I was out of water and gagging. By the time I made it back to the parking lot, I was on my knees.

Two weeks later, with no warning, my husband ended our 20-year marriage. We had grown up together, were university sweethearts, partners for 26 years; nearly half our lives. I had no idea he was unhappy, let alone "done," as he coldly pronounced. He was done with the marriage, done with the house and the dog and all domestic responsibility. A week later, he was gone. A few months later, I was served with divorce papers. I have not seen or spoken to him since.

My life since then has been a painful rebirth. A plethora of therapists, medications, an Olympic-sized swimming pool of alcoholic beverages and more dark thoughts than I care to admit, later, I am still here, still breathing. To gain the strength I needed to face my anger and clear out and sell a 125-year-old home on my own, I took up kickboxing. Today, I belong to a kickboxing gym and attend sessions three times a week. Recently, I started yoga to cope with anxiety. I am fit for the first time. The changes in my body have been strange but I feel strong and powerful. Today, once I start to sweat I am just getting started.

"We need to redo that hike," my friend said recently. After waffling about a date for weeks, we finally scheduled it. We were halfway to the mountain when I did the math and came to a startling conclusion: it had been 500 days since our last hike. Five hundred days. Five hundred steps. The coincidence was unnerving.

I took this do-over hike seriously. I bought a backpack, upped my workouts that week and ate a protein-laden breakfast that morning. I even stretched. Success was about finishing and being better in my heart and in my head.

This time, we both hiked at a steady pace. We were silent on the inclines to conserve energy. When she brought out the bear bell, I didn't scoff. There are bears in the woods. I know that now.

The haze from British Columbia's worst forest-fire season made breathing difficult. We made it to the bottom of the stairs in an hour-and-a-half. It seemed fairly effortless. Then I stepped up onto the first stair. One and then another, grasping the frayed orange rope. As I got farther up, it got harder. I focused on my breathing. Every step was a searing flash of memory – the Thanksgiving I couldn't get out of bed, banging my head on the floor the day of the divorce, crying in the doctor's office, crying on the bus. Fifteen trips to the dump with a neighbour's 4x4, selling my marital furniture for next to nothing, the dog running from me – afraid of my big emotions. Losing my home. Losing my mind. Losing, losing, losing. Then gaining; new and richer relationships with friends and family, a new home, spirituality, perspective.

Up and up. Stop and gasp. The haze of the smoke. A tenderness on my right hip flexor. I thought it would be easier. I thought I could fly up those steps, but nothing is easy. When will I ever learn that?

"We're almost there," my friend gasped. She was huffing, too, which gave me solace. After reaching the top and taking a few sweaty selfies, we kept going, up the incline, past the "no smoking" marker, which I now understood was there to prevent forest fires, and farther still until we plopped down on a bench under a tree. She ate a plum. I drained my Gatorade. A breeze ruffled the leaves. I felt good, sore and sweaty, but it was a good sweat; a clean sweat. We had another hill to the car, but all I needed was a moment. A moment to process my feelings and how far I'd come.

My friend checked her wearable. Twenty minutes faster than last time. It was two minutes short of a record for her, but that didn't bother me. I could have hiked faster at the outset, picked up the pace on the stairs, but we do our best and then we do it again and again and again.

The smoky haze pulled away and for a moment I saw the ocean.

Sara Holland lives in Vancouver.