Western Wanderlust Chronicles

There’s something about winter that feels like a secret waiting to be discovered. The world softens, the noise fades, and nature seems to slow its breath just enough to let you catch yours. On a bright January morning, three women—bundled in layers, smiling with anticipation, and craving mountain air—set off into the snowy stillness of Lily Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park.

This wasn’t just a hike. It was a moment. A reset. A much-needed girls’ escape with Trena and Jessica, where the trail, the trees, and the frozen lake became our playground, our therapy, and our joy—all rolled into one snowy loop.

We chose the outer loop, a little over a mile in distance, that gently skirted the lake and dipped into quiet woods. The snow was deep but welcoming, glittering under a sky so blue it felt like it belonged in a painting. With snowshoes strapped on and poles in hand, we stepped into the hush and let the trail carry us forward.

The lake, fully frozen, stretched out before us in a patchwork of icy blues and snow-swept whites. Footprints from other winter wanderers crisscrossed its surface, reminding us that even in this season of stillness, adventure is alive and well. To one side, snow-covered ridges rose like ancient guards; to the other, stands of pine trees reached for the sky, dusted in frost like something out of a snow globe.

Each step brought a new view—towering peaks in the distance, twisted tree trunks curled in quiet slumber, and sunlight flickering through branches like nature’s own spotlight. Twin Sisters, Lily Mountain, and other snow-capped summits stood watch as we moved along the trail, their presence both grounding and grand.

At one point, laughter took over, and we dropped into the powder to make snow angels. Arms flung wide, faces to the sky, we let ourselves be light, be playful, be free. There’s a special kind of joy in letting go like that—in being silly and present with people who make your heart feel light.

The outer loop led us through more than just wide-open views. We followed the path into the trees, where the forest deepened and the snow grew quiet again. A rustic wooden bridge curved over a snowy streambed. Cairns dotted rocky outcrops like tiny beacons. And animal tracks—fox or rabbit, maybe both—crisscrossed the trail like secret stories written in the snow. The hush of the woods felt sacred, like the forest was sharing something just with us.

Eventually, the loop led us back toward the lake, where our bootprints traced a story of connection, curiosity, and cold cheeks warmed by sunshine and smiles.

After our snowshoe adventure, we traded in winter gear for cozy clothes and headed into downtown Estes Park. Ed’s Cantina & Grill welcomed us with warm lights and the promise of Mexican comfort food. Tacos, salsa, laughter echoing off wooden walls—it was the perfect post-hike ritual. We sat there a while, the kind of tired that feels good, like you earned it, like you lived fully.

A day at Lily Lake gave us more than just a hike.
It gave us quiet and wonder.
Snow and sunlight.
Friendship and freedom.
And the reminder that sometimes, a little snow, a few laughs, and the rhythm of your snowshoes is all you need to feel grounded again.