Just as the Mountain Meets Us: a Shared Reflection
Rather than tell readers what an experience with High Terrain means in my own words, I’d rather share the heartfelt reflections of “T.”
He joined us last winter for a cow elk hunt. From the moment he arrived, it was clear there was more unfolding beneath the surface than simply hiking mountains and searching for elk. As is often the case, the hunt became something deeper than the pursuit itself.
So we let the land lead the way and simply met T where he was in life. What follows are his reflections in his own words — raw, honest, and unedited, just as the Mountain meets us.
“Here is something I wrote from notes I kept during the trip...I save them for me...maybe one day I will work on publishing these but right now I keep things like this as a journal....for me!
The mountain in New Mexico doesn’t care who you used to be. Not about titles. Not about offices in Washington. Not about who you sat next to or what your name meant on a door. Up there, it’s just breath, wind, distance — and truth.
The messages started before I even settled into the hunt. Treasury kept reaching out about a “special project.” The kind of thing that sounds important enough to pull you back in. I had taken that role — political appointee, working directly for the Secretary — because it felt like something earned. A feather in the cap. Something to point to.
But I hadn’t prayed on it. Not really. I hadn’t sat with it long enough to ask whether I was supposed to carry it. So there I was, on a mountain I’d come to for clarity, still tethered to the very thing I should have left behind. Distracted. Irritated. Split in two.
The elk didn’t care. Two good stalks came and went with Landynn. Close enough to feel it, not close enough to take the shot. Each time we pulled back, I felt it settle in heavier — doubt, frustration, that quiet erosion of confidence. I was harder on myself than he ever was. Landynn never said a word about it.
For a young guy, he carried himself like he’d already lived a few lives. Steady. Patient. No ego in him. He didn’t rush me, didn’t push me, didn’t let me spiral either. Just stayed present. There’s a kind of wisdom in that you can’t teach. And somewhere in all of it, I started realizing something else. I missed home.
Not in a passing way. Not in the “I’ll be back soon” kind of way. I missed my wife. My kids. Their husbands. My grandkids. I missed the life I had rebuilt after years at DEA — years where I gave more to the job than I ever gave to them. Retirement had given me that back. Piece by piece, I had rebuilt those relationships. And now here I was again, pulled toward something that looked important — but felt…off.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I laid there in the dark, turning it all over—work, family, purpose, pride. And somewhere in that stillness, in a way I can’t explain but won’t ever forget, I heard it:
“Obey me.” Clear. Simple. Final.
There wasn’t any confusion after that. I knew immediately the job wasn’t mine to carry. The next morning, I made the decision. I would resign.
Before we headed out, I said a quiet prayer to St. Hubert — patron saint of hunters. Not for success, not really. Just for the chance. For the opportunity to do it right.
That day, the mountain answered.
The stalk came together with a kind of calm I hadn’t felt all week. No noise in my head. No second-guessing. Just presence. When the moment came, it was clean. After the shot, everything went quiet again.
We walked up together, Landynn and I. And when I reached her — when I put my hand on that elk — I felt something I didn’t expect.
I was the first human being to ever touch her.
That realization stopped me cold.
I sat down right there on the mountain and felt it all come up at once. Gratitude. Humility. Relief. Something deeper than any of those. I teared up and told Landynn everything — about the voice, about the job, about my family, about what I had almost stepped back into without thinking.
He just listened. He understood.
He’s the only other person I told — until now.
Since I’ve been home, things are different. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just…right.
I’m present in a way I wasn’t before. Fully there with my family. Not halfway in a conversation, not checking something else in the background. Just there. Work has its place — but it’s second now. Where it belongs.
I’ve been scouting the Appalachians — Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia. Those mountains feel like home in a different way. My family came through there once, Croatian immigrants carving out a life after war took everything from them — after Hitler killed nine of my grandfather’s uncles.
There’s something in those hills. When I walk them, I feel it.
I never hunted them before. Not really. That’s changing now.
I’m learning new things too — fly fishing out on the Chesapeake, working a line instead of forcing it. Shooting more. Rifles, handguns, bow, crossbow. Trap. Birds. Slowing down enough to actually get better.
It’s not about proving anything anymore.
Money isn’t the driver. It never really was—it just took me a while to admit that.
I fasted through Lent this year. I’m learning, slowly, what it means to die to self. To let go of the parts of me that chase recognition instead of purpose.
And I keep coming back to that line:
I took the road less traveled…and it made all the difference.”
If T’s experience resonated with you — if something in his story stirred your own desire for growth, clarity, or deeper connection — I invite you to reach out. Level 7 High Terrain exists to support each unique journey of discovery, challenge, and becoming.
I look forward to walking with you,
Darin
