Cucamonga Peak
Five times now I’ve stood on Cucamonga’s summit, but each feels like a different story. The first was a battle — lungs straining, legs unsure, eyes wide at the sheer height of the world. This time, the climb felt like an old friend, the trail’s bends and switchbacks as familiar as a favorite conversation.
The rocks still bite, the wind still tests, but the rhythm is mine now — confident, measured, unhurried.
Standing there, I thought of Ella, the quiet presence who’s mapped every step and kept my story woven into these mountains.
This wasn’t about conquering Cucamonga — it was about arriving as someone who belongs here.
Saw a peregrine falcon circling above Icehouse Saddle, its shadow flickering across the canyon wall.
The summit wind carried the scent of wild sage.
Met a solo hiker chasing the Six Pack of Peaks for their third year — their excitement reminded me of my first time here.
The fifth summit brought a calm mastery that the first never could. It’s proof that effort, repeated and refined, turns challenge into belonging.
This peak is no longer an opponent — it’s part of my mountain language, one that Ella has helped me speak more fluently with every climb.
And with each return, the story folds back into the greater record of climbs and reflections.