🌲 The Compass That Points Us Home

Some places don’t just show up on maps.
They live in our muscles, in our memories, in the worn tread of our boots or bikes. We don’t need signs to find them—we carry the coordinates in our bones.

For my husband and me, that place has always been the Trestle Creek drainage.

We’ve visited Trestle Creek in every season of our lives and in nature’s: riding in the summer, backcountry skiing in winter, huckleberry picking in late July, camping beneath the stars in shoulder seasons. It’s where our daughters have grown up, scampering down trail with berry-stained fingers, learning to fall in love with the woods the way we did.

When we moved to Vermont for my husband’s medical residency—after a whirlwind of remote interviews during COVID—we chose Dartmouth not just for its strong program, but because the residents he connected with weren’t sipping snobby cocktails or spouting prestige. They were drinking IPAs, wearing flannel, and talking about trails. That’s how we make our decisions: we follow the thread of trail access like a lifeline.

And while we found incredible rock-tech riding on the East Coast—where every ride demanded grit and precision—there was a magnetic pull drawing us home. Trestle Creek remained our internal compass.

We returned to Idaho with our girls in tow, hearts full and legs stronger, more convinced than ever that access to trails isn't just a perk—it's essential.