Raymond and I ventured deep into the Crazy Mountains — a range that never fails to live up to its name. We hiked a few hours through an epic hail and rainstorm, the trail layered in nearly four inches of hail within forty minutes. It was wild, humbling, and beautiful in its ferocity.

By dawn, the world had quieted. We woke to a sunrise so tender it felt like grace itself — light spilling gold over the still lake beside our tent.

Crazy Peak’s ridge was raw and steep, every step a dance between grit and awe. As we climbed, I thought of the young Chief Plenty Coups, who at just eleven years old spent several days and nights alone on that rocky summit during his vision quest. His courage and communion with Spirit are still felt in the stones.

We carried that reverence with us — hearts full, humbled by the mountain’s power and the stories it holds.