In a couple of weeks, everything in my life will come to a halt. First off: a bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction. Next up: recuperation. Depending on the results from tests on my cancer and lymph nodes, after that, I might be in for further surgery, chemotherapy, and/or radiation. The months ahead are looking pretty bleak. And very sedentary.

So, this summer, rather than sit at home and do nothing, I decided that while my kids were off at sleepaway camp, my husband Elliot and I would have a last pre-surgery hurrah. A bit like the way we took a babymoon in Key West when I was very pregnant.

We flew to Calgary and then drove to the Rocky Mountains, where we used to walk when we lived in Alberta and the children had to be carried in slings and backpacks (or dragged by the hand, rarely more than a few feet, and with lots of whining). It was lovely to be out in the wild, kid-free, like young folk; it took me all the way back to hikes we did in Israel on our year abroad, 30 years ago.

For our first climb, we chose Ha Ling in Bow Valley Wildland Provincial Park. It’s not a terribly long hike — a 7.4km roundtrip — but the trail goes straight up, with an elevation gain of almost 800 metres.

We began in the forest, on a dirt trail cut into the moss-carpeted ground, and quickly rose above the treeline.

We saw bighorn sheep walk by in single file on a nearby mountainside, and in front of us chipmunks leaped from rock to rock.

Majestic views appeared at every turn: the valley below cut by a ribbon of bright blue water; wedge-shaped Rundle Mountain, an iconic image of the region; and Whiteman’s Pond, deep green in colour.

Until the “saddle” of the mountain, we stayed on the dirt path: on steep climbs, planks of wood were embedded into the rock to form stairs, and in one section there was even a chain-link railing. At the saddle, groups of people sat and ate their snacks or took their selfies and then headed back down again. A few continued up.

“Do you want to go to the peak?” my husband asked.

A hawk circled overhead ominously. Then my eye caught sight of the sign in the distance warning that the path beyond that point was not maintained. A raindrop hit my face. I hesitated.

But this was the last hurrah, after all. “Let’s do it,” I said, and with barely a glance in his direction, I began making my way across the loose scree that covered the ground.

I’m not sure how it happened, but as we began toward the peak — or peaks — my husband and I went in different directions. Next thing I knew, I was all alone on the far right of the mountain, and my husband on the left. We waved at each other, and then he disappeared behind rock.

Meanwhile, the terrain was getting more and more difficult, and the rain wasn’t helping. I knew the path was unmaintained, but as far as I could tell, there was no path at all. I was scrambling on hands on knees, higher and higher. And then I saw it: the peak. The climb was fully vertical now, a game of finding footholds between the boulders. I pulled myself up to the very top and gazed over the edge.

It was beautiful. Lakes of robin’s egg blue, a range of mountains, some glacier-covered; a lush valley below.

Just then I felt my heart sink into the depths of my stomach, and when I tried to move, I discovered my legs had turned to jelly. If this isn’t the least adaptive behaviour a human can have in the face of danger, I don’t know what is. The one thing I needed most at that moment was my legs.

For a few moments, I clung to the mountaintop, trembling. I wondered if this would be my end.

And that’s when the cancer kicked in. Listen, Skinazi, I said -- in times of stress, I am on a strictly last name basis with myself. Listen, Skinazi, you’ve got to move. What’s the worst that can happen? You already have cancer!

Trust me, I wish cancer on no one. But occasionally it has its advantages.
Like magic, my calf muscles re-formed as objects of strength, my ankles and knees remembered how to bend, and I began my journey across the side of the mountain.

I found my husband and the other trekkers and I plopped down on my tush, my heart rate mostly returned to normal, and looked out at the glorious vista. Then we made our way down the (actual) path.