I’m pretty sure the last thing I wrote outside of work was
my dad’s obituary. The urge to write things down has come for a time since
then, but never long enough to commit words to page. I decided it was time to
start putting them down and see what comes of it. The first thing that really
pushed me to write again was the trip I took with my brother and sister to
Colorado in September.
Calling it a vacation seems silly. I was not working, and I
was away from home, and some of it was certainly delightful and relaxing. But
it was emotionally and physically taxing as well. It’s been nearly two years
since my dad died. Feels like ten years ago or two weeks ago, depending on the
day. But while in Colorado, it seemed often like he was right there. Four years
ago, my brother and I did this trip with my dad, hitting nearly all the same
spots. We did what was at the time, and perhaps still is, the hardest physical
challenge of my life. We climbed Quandary Peak, a mountain 14,265 feet in
altitude. The trail is a little under 7 miles, and it is hard terrain. At
places we had to choose each step to make sure our ankles stayed intact. Granite
is unforgiving in all its forms, from large slick rocks with sharp edges, to
small gravel churning underfoot. And on Quandary, there is a lot of granite.
My dad struggled his way up this mountain, proud in the end
that he only quit once before deciding to persevere and get to the top. We took
the last few steps up the mountain together, soaking in the views and reveling
in our accomplishment, before facing the next struggle of getting back down.
This time, it was my sister’s turn to struggle up the mountain. And struggle
she did. She never officially quit, not even once, though I’m certain that the
thought more than danced across her mind. Nothing about this trip was easy for
her, including the “warm up” hikes we did in the days leading up to Quandary. But,
just like before, we took the last few steps together and made it to the top
eventually. And just like before, we realized the job was only half done, and
trudged our way back down.
I remember years ago going to Israel with some of my family.
The most beautiful part of that trip for me was walking through the Bible
stories of my childhood. It was as if Narnia had come to life and I could see
with my own eyes what had only been described in words before. Hearing those
stories again, in the places they occurred, brought them to life and made
history real before my eyes. Whatever your beliefs, it’s hard to underestimate
the historical significance of the life of Jesus. Walking where he walked was
an experience I’ll never forget.
Similarly, walking these steps I last walked with my father
brought him back to life for me, in a way. It sounds beautiful, and it is. But
it is also torturous. I think Colorado is unique because I’ve only been in
those places with him, my brother, and now my sister. Everywhere around “home”
I’ve been with him, I’ve also been with lots of other people. And everywhere
else I’ve traveled with him has been brief, or crowded, or too anonymous to be
memorable. But in Colorado, we walked where few people do. Being that close to
him, but not being able to see him or talk to him, reminded me what is missing
all over again. Time has not yet healed that wound, and I suspect it never
really will.
The funny thing to me about that trip four years ago is that
we had no idea we were nearing the end with him. It was not a “do it before
it’s too late” trip. It was a “do it and then later do it again” trip. We
thought there were decades of adventures left, and were planning the next one
when he got sick. But I love that about my dad. The older he got, the more he
lived. He bought a motorcycle in his 50s, went to a bunch of concerts with Dee, and was up for more adventure than I ever would have guessed. I even convinced him to try seared tuna once. Rare fish. Rare
indeed. I try to remind myself of these things on the days I don’t want to get
out of bed. There is much life yet to be lived, and no excuse to put it off.
Some days though, it is the best I can do to put one foot in front of the other.
Inch my way along the trail. One more step.
