The last hike of the year was never going to go quietly. That much was clear from the jump.

Robert and I had a plan once, clean, sensible, written in imaginary ink that assumed the universe would cooperate. Then the rain came. And it didn’t just come—it moved in like an eviction notice from the gods. Days of it. Rivers swelling, trails sulking, flood warnings flashing like neon NO TRESPASSING signs. The original destination folded under the weight of reality, so we did what we always do when Oregon starts flexing its teeth: we pivoted.

Enter Snow Peak. Maybe Shellburg Falls, if the land allows it. Big if.

The forecast reads like a dare. Rain stacked on rain. Flood warnings hovering over the area like bad omens. Snow expected, because of course it is. The sky threatening to turn the whole thing into a soggy, frozen endurance test. Sensible people would stay home. Sensible people would clean lenses, drink coffee, and wait for spring.

We are not sensible people.

There’s something electric about heading into the woods when everything feels unstable. When the map is more suggestion than promise. When the weather might shut you down or hand you something wild and unexpected. This one has teeth. This one has mystery. Slipping trails. Mud that wants to steal your boots. Trees creaking under the weight of water and snow. The kind of conditions where the forest stops being decorative and starts being honest.

That’s where the good photographs live.

This isn’t a victory lap for the end of the year. It’s a gamble. A roll of the dice against weather systems, swollen creeks, and whatever mood the mountain wakes up in that morning. Cameras packed like survival gear. Layers piled on like armor. No guarantees—just the promise of movement, cold air in the lungs, and the chance that somewhere between Snow Peak and a raging, rain-fed waterfall, the year gives us one last story worth telling.

The final adventure doesn’t end with a sunset and a bow. It ends in the unknown. And honestly? That feels exactly right.